Chapter 2 - The Cottage Was Supposed to Be for Eli and Me
I bought the Malibu cottage two years after my marriage ended.
My ex-wife, Lauren, and I had been together eleven years.
There was no affair.
No courtroom war.
No villain.
We were good at:
co-parenting,
logistics,
career planning.
We had simply become terrible at being married to each other.
Lauren worked in television production.
Long hours.
Unpredictable shoots.
I ran a supply-chain software company I had started with two partners in my early thirties.
By the time Eli was seven, our marriage had become:
calendar management with occasional sex.
We tried counseling.
Then stopped pretending disappointment was:
a phase.
We divorced.
Shared legal custody.
Eli primarily stayed with Lauren during school weeks because their house was closer to:
school,
friends,
soccer.
I had alternating weekends, one weekday overnight and extended holidays.
I hated the phrase:
alternating weekends.
It sounded like fatherhood had become:
a subscription plan.
So when a friend showed me a small remodeled cottage near the water, I bought it.
Three bedrooms.
White sofa.
Open kitchen.
Glass doors facing the ocean.
Technically luxurious because Malibu makes ordinary square footage expensive.
But small enough that Eli and I were never separated by:
wings,
floors,
staff.
I told him:
“This is our place.”
That was the first correct use of:
our.
Father and son.
Then my parents visited.
Mom cried at the ocean view.
Dad said:
“You did well.”
Jenna came the following weekend.
She stood on the patio and said:
“Finally.”
I laughed.
“Finally what?”
“A family beach house.”
I should have corrected her.
Instead I opened:
May you like
champagne.
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