His excuse was that he needed a nice car to meet clients—never mind that his job didn't involve meeting clients at all. He said he needed a car for his commute. When my parents asked what kind, he said a Porsche.
I shut that down and got him a basic sedan instead.
But he never let it go. Every holiday, big or small, he'd bring it up whenever he visited my parents. Mom remembered. When she won the lottery, the first thing she wanted to do was buy him that car.
"What money of yours have I spent? I told you—when I make it big, I'll pay you back double! Everything I spent was basically my own money!"
I stared at him, speechless.
Before I could respond, he threw himself onto the couch, crossed his legs, and jabbed a finger at the stunned security guards.
"What are you standing around for? Get out! This is my house!"
I'd had enough. I stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face.
"You must be drunk out of your mind! Fifteen more days and the cooling-off period ends. We. Are. Divorced."
The slap didn't sober him up. He froze for a moment.
Then he looked at me, eyes bloodshot, like a viper coiling to strike.