On Father's Day, My Husband Played Dad to His Ex's Kid

That drawing board was my birthday gift to Vivien.

On it was the family portrait she'd spent a whole month drawing.

Now it was buried under black scribbles.

“No! That's mine!”

Vivien lunged to grab it back.

Jake shoved her away with one hand, and she hit the floor full force.

The back of her head cracked against the corner of the coffee table with a dull thud.

Everything in my head went silent.

Three strides and I had her up off the ground.

No blood at the back of her head, but a swollen lump.

Vivien sobbed from the pain.

Jake still clutched that marker, not a care on his face.

I slapped at his hand and sent the marker flying.

“Ow——”

Jake let out a wail, dropped onto his backside, and started throwing a fit.

Dorothy shot up from the couch and rushed over, scooping Jake into her arms.

“What do you think you're doing?!”

She glared at me.

“A grown adult, hitting a child? Have you got no decency at all?”

I looked at her.

Wearing my pajamas, living in my house, drinking from my cup.

Her son knocked my daughter to the floor, and she was asking me about decency?

“Who let you into my home?”

“Zachary did.”

She smoothed the wrinkles out of her clothes, smug as anything.

“My rental's leaking, and Zachary felt bad for Jake, so he told us to stay here for now.”

I picked up the juice off the coffee table and threw it straight at her.

Dorothy shrieked and jumped up.

“You're insane! June, you're insane!”

“Get out.”

I pointed at the door.

“Take your son and get out. Right now.”

"What gives you the right to throw me out? Zachary said we could live here!"

“This is my house.”

My voice was flat.

“My name is the only one on the deed.”

“Zachary Gilbert has no right to cram anyone in here.”

Dorothy opened her mouth, ready to say more.

The elevator dinged out in the hall.

The door opened.

Zachary stood in the doorway, arms full of bags, soaked through.

He saw Dorothy's face dripping with juice, saw Jake crying on the floor, saw me standing in the middle of the living room.

His first reaction wasn't to ask what had happened.

It was to rush over and put Dorothy behind him.

“June, what did you do?”

There was an accusation in Zachary's voice.

“You're asking me what I did?”

I pointed at the pajamas on Dorothy, pointed at the scribbled-over drawing board on the floor, pointed at the lump on Vivien's head.

“You should be asking what she did.”

Dorothy hid behind him, sniffling and crying.

“Zachary, I just moved in like you told me to, and the second she got home she started swinging.”

“I never laid a finger on you.”

I said.

That was when Jake wrapped his arms around Zachary's leg.

“Daddy! She hit me! It hurts so bad!”