Prompt: What if Mother's Day didn't go as planned?
May 2000

"Wake up, Dad," said a high pitched voice. George. Alan forced his eyes open.

"It's Sunday morning," he grumbled, squinting down at his five-year-old son. "Why aren't you at church?"

"Mommy's still sick, I think," he said. Like hell Veata was sick. She was probably just trying to garner sympathy from the only person in the house who hadn't got fed up with all her drama. "Get up! Get up!"

Alan sat up, yawning. "You hungry? I'll make some eggs on top." That was hard-boiled eggs, chopped up on top of a piece of toast. George always scarfed down as much as he could.

"No. Make mangos. They're Mommy's favorite food."

"What's all this about Mommy? And you don't make mangos-- you get them out of the fridge." Alan eased himself off the couch. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and his back wasn't feeling all that good. "I'll make you some eggs on top."

Veata was in the kitchen, staring out into space, sitting up straighter than was necessary. Alan knew that look in her eyes-- she 'needed' a drink. Well that just wasn't going to happen. She was dangerous drunk. He didn't want her to go batshit and hit the kid, like she had when they'd visited the Parsons. Anger rose up in Alan, and he wanted to berate her for something, but he couldn't think of anything logical. God, that woman was starting to make him hate her.

"Happy Mother's Day!" George shrieked, hugging her around the waist. She picked him up and set him on her knee as Alan watched, ready to snipe at her for the first thing she did wrong. She was going to drop him. He almost hoped she would. Then no one would question him if he were to file for divorce.

George handed something to Veata, and Alan peered over her shoulder at it. It was a crayon drawing of flowers and trucks. "Thank you, George," said Veata, her voice breaking. She was going to cry again, like she always did. Alan turned away in disgust and flung open the refrigerator door.

"You hungry?" he asked, jarring her. Veata's eye was filled with malice as she turned it on him.

"Since when do you care about--"

"Stop it with that passive aggressive shit!" Alan shouted, and all was still. George climbed off his mother's lap and backed away to a corner. "I'm sick and tired--" Alan advanced toward her, jabbing his finger-- "of all this shit! All you wanna do is make yourself seem like a victim."

"I'm moving out," said Veata, standing up. Her mouth curved into a vicious smile. "I'm moving out, you insensitive bastard. Is that what you want? Is that what you really--"

"Yes!" The word was unbelievably liberating as it echoed off the soundproof walls. He took a step forward, all his anger gone. "Yes. Let's get a divorce."

Her eye was wide, fathomless, dark. "Alan, I didn't mean--" She bit her lip, and a tear finally spurted out her tear duct. She was only acting. Alan couldn't imagine that she would be upset at the prospect of leaving him. "Fine! I know that you never loved me! All you care about--"

"--is the kid at this point!" shouted Alan. "I loved the kid more than you ever did!"

"Don't you think that you'll be keeping him!" screamed Veata. "It's not like you had to go through childbirth! And I practically had to raise him on my own because--"

"Don't flatter yourself!" said Alan. "What'd you hire the nanny for? Company? I was the one--" He stopped when he heard George wailing in the corner. "Look what you did!" he demanded.