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THE WEIGHT OF AN ALBATROSS

W riting is becoming increasingly difficult. Every time I carve out even a small amount of time to focus, it feels like Timmy senses it in the air, notices my focus sharpening—and pounces.

Every time I have a deadline with my editor, Timmy will invent some sort of crisis.

“This is ridiculous. Is every fucking book going to be like this?” he snaps from across the room, pacing dramatically as if my concentration is somehow a personal attack on him. “You’re impossible to be around when you’re writing,” he sneers, his tone sharp enough to cut through whatever creative flow I’ve managed to muster.

It feels like he’s flipped the switch on me. How many times have I told him the same thing, but in reverse? That it’s impossible to write when he’s lurking nearby, demanding constant attention and affirmation. If I don’t respond immediately to whatever mundane thought pops into his head, he acts insulted. As though my silence, and not wanting to constantly be pulled out of my work, is some grand betrayal.

“It’s so unfair,” he pouts, his arms crossed like a petulant child. “I don’t think I can be around you when you’re like this. ”

This from the person who used to tell me how proud he was of my writing career. Who used to boast about my writing to others. Now, it feels like my work has become a battleground—a constant reminder that I have responsibilities he refuses to acknowledge.

Every time I say I’m busy, that I just need an hour or so, the passive-aggressive remarks begin, diminishing the value of whatever I’m working on.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I interrupted you from sending an email.”

“Oh, so doing a TikTok is more important than me, now?”

“Oh, you can’t write if I talk? That sounds like a fucking excuse to me.”

The message is clear: nothing should matter more than Timmy.

“Timmy,” I say, my voice strained, barely holding onto civility. “If I don’t work, I can’t make any money, and if I can’t make money, then I can’t pay our rent.” I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands, my knuckles turning white. “All I’m asking is for you to be quiet while I get this done. That’s all.”

He scoffs, dismissive as usual. “Wow, you’re so fucking extra, Margaux. I wish you would just go and work in the back room, if this is such a big deal.”

His words make my blood pound in my ears, hot and relentless. I fight to keep my voice calm, but my frustration bubbles dangerously close to the surface. “There’s no way I’m going to pay all the rent and go hide in the fucking back room while you sit out here doing nothing, Timmy!”

I’m starting to think that if he had his way, I’d be locked in the back room all the time, churning out content like a machine—spitting out anything that could make enough money to keep a roof over our heads. Meanwhile, he’d stay out here, enjoying the beachfront view, sprawled out across the bed watching movies, living off the lifestyle I’m paying for.

The back room is a nightmare, stifling and cramped with little air flow and the noise of people constantly walking past, surrounded by uninspiring cinder block walls. It feels like a prison cell. It’s a stark contrast to the front room, with its wide-open windows facing the ocean, where I can see swaying palm trees, and waves spraying up over the reef. With access to the kitchen, air conditioning, and natural sunlight. The only place in the apartment where I can breathe. Where I feel creative. He has to be joking. It would be more inspiring to write while sitting on the toilet. There’s no way in hell I’m writing from the back room.

But any time I push back, which is increasingly often, he automatically goes on the defensive, twisting the narrative. “All you care about is money,” he hisses, as if I’m the greedy one here.

“I contribute food stamps,” he snaps, as though that’s a sustainable solution that somehow levels the scales. “And don’t forget the value of the truck. You have to include the value of the truck.”

I bite my tongue, but my resentment festers. He’s made it abundantly clear that his contribution—those food stamps that he does literally nothing to earn—mean that I should carry the rest without complaint. As if keeping a roof over our heads, paying all our bills, and providing emotional labor aren’t monumental tasks I shoulder every single day.

Then I see it. A text exchange between him and his father, sitting open on his phone, carelessly left on the kitchen counter. They’re talking about the truck. The truck Timmy gave me—that’s in my name—as though it’s still his. They’re scheming about how to maintain Timmy’s ownership of the truck, even though the title is mine, even though I’ve paid for registration and safety checks and maintenance and everything else.

They’re scheming behind my back, planning how to pull the rug out from under me. My heart sinks, twisting in my chest like a vise. It’s not just Timmy—it’s him and his father, plotting together.

After everything I’ve done for Timmy.

I feel so betrayed, and quite frankly shocked by his dad’s involvement.

I’ve been shouldering the load for months—paying the rent, bills, and food over and above what the food stamps are able to provide, entertainment, vehicle costs, things we need to keep the house running… making sure that Timmy’s okay. And now, behind closed do ors, they’re over there conspiring how to fuck me over further, discussing how to take even more from me. It’s a betrayal I can’t quite wrap my head around.

A hollow ache settles deep inside me. It’s not just about the truck, or the rent, or the endless excuses. I know that part of my resentment is because I don’t have this type of support on my side. No family scheming to help me , although I have a feeling if I did they’d be telling me to run. No safety net waiting to catch me. I’ve been shouldering everything alone.

And it hurts.

It’s not Timmy’s fault that I don’t have family to fall back on and he does. It’s not his fault I’ve never had anyone looking out for me the way his father looks out for him.

But the pain lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind. It’s hard not to feel bitter when you realize you’re the only one fighting for your survival, while others conspire against you—even the ones who claim to love you.

I shake off the guilt creeping in. This isn’t my fault . I know that. But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

As the days go on, the tension builds every time I sit down to write.

I’m running out of money, deadlines are looming like dark clouds, and my brain is screaming for me to focus. But the constant interruptions, the dismissive comments, the subtle digs—it’s like trying to write with a ticking time bomb under the desk.

I catch glimpses of Timmy messaging his dad late at night, their conversations quiet and secretive. I know they’re planning something. And every time I confront him about it, he brushes me off.

“Relax,” he’ll say, with that infuriating grin. “We’re just talking. Dad thinks you’re great. You’re overthinking everything.”

But I know what I saw. And the pit in my stomach tells me it’s only a matter of time before the other shoe drops. I just don’t know what the shoe is—what style, what size, anything. Just that there is one, and it won’t benefit me in any way.

I can feel myself unraveling, piece by piece. My writing—once a refuge—feels like a burden. Every word I manage to get on the page is a battle, every chapter a war fought against the chaos of my own life.

And all the while, Timmy looms in the background, sabotaging my efforts with a smile.

I’m drowning, and the people closest to me are the ones pulling me under.