It wasn't my fault.
Let me begin there. I know what you've read. I know what you've heard. It's all been twisted through the anger and hatred of my ex-wife, who blames me entirely for actions I had no control over.
The fact is: she lived in the house. She was responsible for locking the doors, maintaining the fire alarms, and seeing that all wires were in good working condition. When we lived together, I took on those roles, as the man of the house might be expected to do.
When she kicked me out so she could shack up with Jamie's geography teacher, I gave up those roles.
I gave up a lot. I gave up the furniture in the den - which were mine before the marriage - among other items so that Jamie's environment wouldn't change as dramatically as his family. It was all about his comfort. It was all her suggestion.
When we got divorced, she got custody of Jamie, the house, the furniture and the responsibilities. Blaming me for the fire is not fair. I'm sure that - had I not had the alibi of thirteen (13!) unimpeachable sources - she'd have accused me of setting the fire.
She's that kind of bitter, grasping, nasty woman. Ask Mr. Isoceles Triangle, who moved out six months ago, I learned. Not that she told me. You'd think I'd know when something major impacted my son. But noooooo. Why should I matter? I'm only the father.
Watch. She'll be dating a fireman before all this is over. The woman's a MASTER of sucking in men with her wounded victim act. She got me with a lost cat. Needless to say, she's improved her routine.
Oh, she's a vile woman.
This vignette was inspired by a man by the stamp vending machine