I glance at him, wondering why a man who’s tender and caring towards me can be this dismissive to my child. Then, I look at my four-year-old son, in the middle of a spectacular tantrum on the floor of my living room. My heart breaks for him; he doesn’t understand why his daddy isn’t here anymore.
‘You mollycoddle him, Sarz,’ Richard says contemptuously. ‘He’s a pussy. You need to let him lie in his own snot for a while.’
‘He’s four, Richard.’
‘Yeah, but it’s these formative years that make a child.’
What does he know about raising a child?
‘Yeah, well,’ I say. ‘You know what?’ My tone is fierce and cutting.
Richard looks at me, surprise brightening his eyes.
‘He’s my boy and I’m going to raise him my way. He’s still grieving his dad, doesn’t even understand what death is. I mean, I don’t even understand it, fully.’
I wipe tears roughly, with the back of my hand. With a sigh, I go on, ‘We’re done here. I don’t want to see you anymore.’