Chapter 8 - The Truth Dropped Like a BombThe next day, Victoria Vance served a formal subpoena to Dorothy’s medical provider, requesting all certified oncology records for the upcoming final divorce and asset division hearing.
Because Tyler had listed himself as Dorothy’s primary medical proxy months ago, the medical records portal automatically emailed a copy of the subpoenaed files to his email address.
The explosion happened at 4:00 p.m.
I was sitting on the front porch with my mother, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze, when a cab pulled up to the curb down the street—just outside the 500-foot boundary set by the restraining order.
Tyler got out of the cab. He didn't walk toward my house. He turned toward Dorothy's house down the street, holding a thick stack of printed papers in his hand.
Even from three doors down, we could hear the roaring.
"DOROTHY!" Tyler screamed as he kicked open his mother's front door. The sound echoed down the quiet residential street. "DOROTHY, GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!"
Neighbors came out onto their porches. Windows opened.
"Tyler, sweetie, what's wrong?!" Dorothy's frantic voice carried through the air.
"READ THIS!" Tyler screamed, his voice cracking into high-pitched hysteria. "READ IT! 'Patient in full remission! No evidence of active disease! Radiation completed four months ago!' YOU'RE NOT DYING!"
"Tyler, let me explain—"
"YOU ARE NOT DYING!" Tyler roared, and the sound of glass shattering echoed from inside the house. "I lost my job! I lost my wife! My daughter was taken away from me! I am facing criminal investigation and public ruin! I stole my daughter's food because you told me you were dying!"
"Tyler, please, the milk was making me feel stronger—"
"YOU CRAZY, MANIPULATIVE MONSTER!" Tyler screamed. "You lied to me! You made me starve my own baby girl so you could play the sick victim! You made me destroy my entire life for YOUR FAKE CANCER!"
Brenda’s voice joined the chaos, yelling at Tyler to calm down, but Tyler was completely unhinged. The sound of furniture being thrown and doors slamming echoed down the block.
Minutes later, two police cruisers pulled up to Dorothy’s house with lights flashing. Officers rushed inside.
My mother and I watched from our porch as Tyler was led out of Dorothy’s house in handcuffs, crying hysterically, his head hanging low. He wasn't being arrested for violating my restraining order—he had been arrested because Dorothy, true to her sociopathic nature, had called 911 on her own son for domestic property destruction the moment he destroyed her living room TV.
As the police car drove past my house, Tyler looked out the back window. His eyes met mine through the glass.
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He looked broken, completely destroyed, realizing too late that in trying to save a mother who was lying to him, he had sacrificed the woman who truly loved him and the baby who actually needed him.
I didn't smile. I didn't cheer. I simply pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders, turned my back on him, and walked inside to hold my daughter.
