“You’ve officially found the dumbest way to waste money.”
That was Declan. He could spend thousands on his Mustang without blinking, but if I bought something for myself, he suddenly became a financial advisor.
Last Christmas, he complained that the coffee maker I’d bought was too expensive. Two days later, he ordered a new set of tools for his garage.
“Didn’t you just buy tools?” I’d asked.
“Not these.”
That was Declan.
“You already have three toolboxes.”
“And you already had a coffee maker.”
“Mine was broken.”
“Yours still made coffee.”
Apparently, something only needed replacing when it belonged to him.
Even grocery shopping turned into an interrogation.
Even grocery shopping turned into an interrogation.
“Why are we buying name-brand cereal?”
“Because Owen likes it.”
“He’ll survive with the cheaper one.”
But when Declan wanted premium parts for his Mustang, suddenly quality mattered.
I’d learned to live with his double standards. What I hadn’t expected was for him to treat my grandmother’s house the same way.
I’d learned to live with his double standards.
“The roof is ancient. The kitchen is from the seventies. Do you have any idea what repairs will cost?”
“Yes. I talked to two contractors. I have a plan. I’ll do it slowly.”
“With what money?”
“Mine. I’m not asking you to pay for anything.”
“That’s the worst decision you’ve ever made.” He grabbed his keys. “Don’t come crying to me when you realize it.”
My husband’s attitude stung, but I said nothing. That was a mistake, because things only got worse from there.
“Declan, can you at least let me explain why I bought it?”
“That’s the worst decision you’ve ever made.”
“You already did. You miss your grandma.”
“That’s not all.”
“Then what? Are you planning to move us into that place?”
“No. I want somewhere we can spend weekends. Somewhere Owen can play outside.”
“And I want you to sell this shack.”