Chapter 5 - The Desperate Ploy
Desperation makes people dangerous, but it also makes them stupid.
Two weeks later, the criminal walls were closing in on Richard. His bail was barely holding him out of a cell, and he had nothing left to lose. He decided his only way out was to manipulate the one thing he thought I still had a soft spot for—my emotions regarding Ethan’s father.
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I was picking Ethan up from his prestigious private preschool. I stood under a large black umbrella, chatting with one of the teachers, when a rusted sedan sped into the parking lot.
Richard jumped out. He looked awful. His designer suit was wrinkled and stained, his face was unshaven, and he had dark circles under his eyes.
"Amanda! Amanda, please wait!" he yelled, running across the wet pavement toward us.
Immediately, the two private security guards my father had hired stepped in front of me, forming an impenetrable wall of muscle.
"Step back, Mr. Whitman," one of the guards warned, placing a hand on his weapon.
"I just want to see my son!" Richard cried out, falling to his knees in the rain. It was a pathetic, theatrical display. He looked past the guards to where Ethan was standing next to me, holding my hand tightly.
"Ethan, buddy," Richard pleaded, putting on his best, most sorrowful voice. "Daddy is so sorry. Daddy made a mistake. Please tell Mommy to forgive me. We can be a family again."
I looked down at my son. Three weeks ago, Richard had made him crawl on a marble floor in tears. Three weeks ago, Richard had looked at him and said he didn't belong.
I didn't say a word. I let Ethan decide what to do.
Ethan squeezed my hand. He looked at the man kneeling in the rain, crying. Then, with the pure, unfiltered honesty that only a four-year-old possesses, Ethan shook his head.
"You're not my daddy," Ethan said clearly, his little voice carrying through the rain. "You let the mean lady hurt me. My mommy said daddies are supposed to protect you. You're just a bad man."
Richard gasped as if he had been physically shot. The last remaining shred of his ego evaporated into the cold air.
"Let's go home, sweetie," I said softly, guiding Ethan toward our warm SUV.
"Amanda, please! You can't let me go to jail!" Richard screamed, trying to crawl past the guards. "I'll do anything! Please!"
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"You're right, Richard," I said, pausing before getting into the car. I looked back at him, feeling absolutely nothing—no anger, no sadness, just the empty relief of taking out the trash. "I'm not letting you go to jail. The judge is doing that. Enjoy your new home."
The guards pushed him back onto the wet pavement. We drove away, leaving him kneeling in the mud, crying alone in the storm.
