My Wife Is Forcing Me to Be Her Ex-Boyfriend's Assistant

Nelson woke up from the commotion, his soft cries breaking the silence.

I forced myself up despite the lingering pain, but the moment I stepped into the hallway, I froze.

Trevor was already there, standing in the doorway of Nelson’s room like he belonged. He wore a smug, self-satisfied grin, the picture of a doting father.

However, what hit me the hardest was how quickly Nelson had calmed down.

The same little boy I usually spent ages comforting was now clinging to Trevor’s neck, happily munching on a fried chicken drumstick.

"Trevor Daddy, you’re the best!" Nelson giggled, his small arms wrapped around him. "My daddy never lets me eat this. He’s so mean!"

My stomach twisted.

Nelson had a sensitive stomach, just like I did. I rarely let him eat fried food because I didn’t want him to suffer through the same unbearable pain I’d experienced.

Madeline knew about that. She knew it better than anyone. Yet she just stood there, watching it happen, not saying a word.

When she finally noticed me standing pale-faced by the door, there wasn’t a trace of concern in her eyes — only irritation.

"Ugh, whatever," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I’m not going to argue with you."

"You’re feeling sick? Well, whose fault is that? You refused to eat earlier. What, am I supposed to feel sorry for you now?"

With an air of exaggerated annoyance, she tossed a crumpled black plastic bag onto the table. The greasy smell of takeout wafted through the room.

"If I didn’t remember your precious stomach condition, I wouldn’t have bothered at all. Do you know how humiliating it was to ask for leftovers to-go? Seriously, I won’t be doing that again."

She said it like I should be grateful. As though bringing home cold scraps of food was some act of self-sacrifice.

The sheer disdain in her voice was impossible to miss.

The only reason I was had this searing pain in my stomach was because of her and Trevor.

They’d intentionally dragged me through the mud in front of Mr. Cox, backed me into a corner and forced me to drink, knowing full well what it would do to me.

Just then, Nelson's innocent voice cut through the tension. He pointed at the black plastic bag on the table, his wide eyes full of confusion.

"Isn’t that a trash bag? Daddy, are you going to eat garbage?"

My heart sank.

Madeline, seeing my lack of reaction, furrowed her brows, her tone dripping with irritation.

"There weren’t any other containers," she said dismissively. "And this bag’s sturdy enough. What’s your problem? It’s not like you’re one to be picky."

Then she sneered, her words landing like a slap.

"Or have you forgotten where you came from? You crawled your way up from nothing. Isn’t this more your style?"

Her voice sharpened. I could tell she meant those words.

"Weren’t you the one digging through trash to survive? Fighting stray dogs for scraps?"

The room suddenly felt colder. She said it so easily, like it was just a fact — like it wasn’t meant to tear me down.

But it did. She knew everything.

I’d trusted her with my past—the part of me I rarely spoke about.

After my parents died, I’d been left to fend for myself. I scavenged what I could, spent nights on the streets and relied on the occasional kindness of strangers just to get by.

But I didn’t let that define me.

With sheer determination, I worked my way through school. My first year after graduation, I built a small software program, earned my first real income and repaid every bit of kindness I’d ever received—double.

When I told Madeline my story, she cried. She held me, promising I’d never feel that kind of pain again. She swore she’d stand by me, help me heal from those years of struggle.

But now she stood there, using the most painful chapters of my life as a weapon.

Worse, she said it in front of our son.

She had exposed my past, about the days when I scavenged for food, fighting stray dogs just to survive.

I forced myself to meet Nelson's eyes, determined to tell him that relying on yourself wasn’t something to be ashamed of. I wanted him to understand that strength comes from enduring hardship.

Before I could even get a word out, Nelson's face twisted with disgust. "Ew, Daddy! That’s gross! People who dig through trash are all smelly! No wonder you smell too!"

His words hit harder than I expected.

"You always tell me not to eat dirty food," he continued, his voice trembling with anger. "But you fought dogs for food? You lied to me!"

Then, without warning, he spat at me.

"You're disgusting! I don't want you to be my daddy! I want a new daddy! I want Trevor!"

Trevor, still holding Nelson like a trophy, put on his usual act of false modesty.

"Now, now," he said with a condescending smile. "You already have a daddy. How could I possibly replace him?"

But Nelson’s tears only intensified.

I reached out instinctively, desperate to calm him down. But before I could touch him, he lunged forward and sank his teeth into my arm.

I gasped as pain shot through me. His bite was hard, too hard for a five-year-old and within moments, blood welled up where his small teeth had broken the skin.

I didn’t pull away. I was afraid of hurting him.

And he didn’t stop. Fueled by rage, he kicked me violently. One blow landed squarely against my stomach—the same stomach that was already wracked with pain from the alcohol.

A fresh wave of agony tore through me. I doubled over, clutching my side, struggling to stay on my feet.

Nelson just laughed. "Bad Daddy!" he jeered. "That’s what you get for not letting me eat fried chicken and burgers!"

"I beat you! You have to listen to me now! Are you gonna let me have fried chicken and burgers whenever I want?"

Nelson's smug small face was nothing like the sweet, innocent son I remembered. It was as if he had become someone I didn’t recognize.

When I didn’t respond, Nelson’s frustration flared. He swung his fists and kicked at my stomach, his small voice filled with anger.

"Are you gonna let me have fried chicken and burgers now? If you don’t, I don’t want you to be my dad anymore!"

Pain shot through me, the lingering burn from the alcohol and my stomach condition twisting into something unbearable. I tried to endure it, but when Nelson threw another punch, I instinctively raised my arm to block it.

He stumbled backward and fell to the floor with a thud.

For a moment, the room went silent. Then, the air filled with his piercing wails.

"Daddy hit me! Daddy hit me!"

Instead of the usual wave of guilt and worry, all I felt was emptiness. Just a dull, exhausted numbness.

Trevor swooped in, lifting Nelson into his arms. His expression twisted with exaggerated concern.

"Horatio!" he sneered, shaking his head. "He’s just a kid! No matter what he said, how could you raise your hand to him?"

Nelson buried his face into Trevor’s shoulder, his sobs echoing through the room.

Madeline’s eyes narrowed in disgust. "It’s humiliating enough for Nelson to have a father like you."

She crossed her arms, her tone dripping with disdain. "Don’t bother coming to his parent-teacher conference next month. Trevor and I will go instead."

"And you don't need to come to the company anymore. You’re no longer vice president. From now on, you’ll report to Trevor as his assistant."

The words struck like a punch to the gut, but I refused to let the pain show.

My vision blurred as the searing ache in my stomach threatened to overwhelm me. I bit down on my tongue, forcing myself to stay upright.

In that moment, as I stood there with the weight of her contempt bearing down on me, I knew one thing—whatever we had left was beyond saving.

"Fine, as you wish." Summoning the last of my strength, I spoke, my voice steady. "Madeline, I want a divorce. You can keep the kid."

"What?"

"I said I want a divorce. And I don’t want custody."