The driveway handover was always a study in contrasts. On the left sat my rusted Honda Civic, filled with reusable grocery bags and graded papers. On the right idled a gleaming, obsidian-black Range Rover that cost more than my entire master’s degree.
David rolled down the window, the blast of climate-controlled air hitting the humid summer evening.
“You’re late,” I said, checking my watch.
“I was closing a deal,” he said dismissively, adjusting his silk tie. “Some of us have empires to build.”
It was the same old song. My ex is rich; I am a teacher. While I spent my days teaching algebra to thirty teenagers and my nights clipping coupons, David spent his time accumulating wealth and resentment. He hated that the court had granted me primary custody. He hated that he couldn’t control me anymore.
So, he decided to control the narrative with his wallet.
He tries to buy the kids’ love with iPhones and vacations. Every other weekend, they came home with new gadgets, designer sneakers, and stories about five-star resorts. I couldn’t compete. I offered board game nights and homemade tacos; he offered the world on a platinum platter.
This Friday, however, he decided to escalate the war.
My son, Leo, walked out of the house with his backpack. He was fourteen, that impressionable age where status starts to matter. David saw him and grinned, leaning out of the window.
“Hey, buddy,” David said, his voice loud enough for me to hear. “I was thinking. You’re starting high school soon. You’ll be driving in two years.”
Leo shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I was looking at the new Mustangs,” David dropped the bait effortlessly. “If you live with me, you can have a car.“.
My heart stopped. I looked at Leo. I knew I couldn’t match that. I would be lucky to help him buy a used sedan with 150,000 miles on it. I felt a surge of panic. Was this it? Was this the moment I lost him to the highest bidder?
Leo stopped halfway to the car. He looked at the Range Rover. He looked at his father, who was wearing a watch worth more than my car. Then, he looked back at the house, where the smell of burnt cheese from our chaotic Friday night pizza party still lingered.
He turned back to David.
“A Mustang?” Leo asked.
“Brand new,” David promised, sensing victory. “Any color you want. Just say the word, and you move into the guest wing.”
My son looked at him with a clarity that unsettled me. He didn’t look tempted. He looked… pitying.
“‘Dad, at Mom’s house, we have pizza and we laugh,’” Leo said calmly. “‘At your house, we have have iPads and silence.’“.
The silence that followed was deafening. David’s smile froze. The bribe had bounced.
Leo opened the back door of the Range Rover and tossed his bag in. “I’m ready to go,” he said, climbing in. “But I’m coming back on Sunday. Mom promised we could make brownies.”
I stood on the porch, watching David’s face crumble. He had the car, the house, and the millions. But in that moment, he realized he was the poorest man on the street.
He couldn’t buy what I built for free. He could buy their presence, but he couldn’t buy their joy. As they drove away, I didn’t feel jealous of his wealth anymore. I went back inside to my messy, loud, pizza-scented house, knowing that I was the one who was truly rich.
