The Bamboozle

Five years into my marriage, my wife’s childhood buddy, let’s call him Ricky, posts a picture of a deed on his social media.

The caption reads: “Huge thanks to my amazing sis for signing over this pad to me!”

I'm staring at the post, seeing my address on the deed, and can’t help myself: “?” I commented.

Immediately, my wife, Sarah, calls, practically screaming into the phone.

“He’s a single dad, for crying out loud! I just transferred the deed to make it easier for his kid to get into the right school zone, it doesn’t affect where we live!”

“Why do you have to be so heartless, with zero empathy?”

I could hear Ricky whinging in the background.

Thirty minutes later, Ricky’s posting again, this time tagging me. He’s showing off a brand-new, hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes.

“All cash, baby! As they say, a woman spends her money where her heart is!”

I knew damn well Sarah bought it to placate him after my comment.

But this time, I’m done. Divorce it is.

…

When Sarah got back, I was taking my Sunitinib pill with a slice of birthday cake. I need this med after having my stomach tumor removed.

It was my birthday, and I bought the cake ahead of time, wanting to tell Sarah about the surgery while she was away on her business trip.

I waited until 7 pm, and she wouldn’t answer her texts or calls. It was only when I commented on Ricky’s post that she called back, and all I got was a mouthful of blame.

I tried to explain, but she hung up and blocked me. I was so angry, my surgical wound started bleeding again.

Sarah glances at the meds and cake on the table, her brow furrowed.

“Whose birthday is it? Yours?”

I quietly put away the pills and toss the cake in the trash, saying calmly:

“It's for a friend.”

She visibly relaxes.

“I thought your birthday was September 28th. Today is just September 8th.”

Five years married, and Sarah still got my birthday wrong.

It’s hilarious, because she can remember his birthday perfectly.

Sarah sits next to me, handing me a toy car.

“Ricky wanted me to give you this. He was freaked out by your snark today, can you just apologize to him?”

The toy car had the Mercedes logo on it, and a clear grease stain.

“No thanks,” I say quietly.

Sarah's expression turns sour.

“What's the big deal? He was shook up, and he’s trying to make amends. Can’t you just say sorry?”

When I don’t budge, she tries to drag me up to call Ricky. She pulls hard, and my injured right leg slams into the cold coffee table.

Sarah had burned me a week before. She was carrying a bowl of hot soup from the kitchen, texting Ricky as she walked, and ended up spilling it all over my foot, leaving a nasty burn.

She sees the new blood seeping from the wound and panics.

“I’ll take you to the ER.”

“Okay,” I agree.

We barely get in the car when the Bluetooth speaker starts playing. It's Ricky’s whiny, cringey voice.

“Welcome back, my boss lady! Keep making that money for me, okay?”

Sarah’s face changes.

“Ricky left that last time. I was go...