Leaving my genius Asperger husband and son

"X equals four, Y equals twelve." Lucas tapped his yellow pencil against the grid of his graph paper.

"Are you sure about the variable?" I held out a ceramic plate of sliced apples.

"Variables are absolute. People are not." My seven-year-old son didn't look up. He tapped his forehead twice with his index finger. It was a self-soothing rhythm he used when the math got complicated.

Genius. Asperger's. The two labels that defined my entire existence.

"Did you finish the geometry assignment for school?" I walked closer to his desk.

"Shapes are rudimentary. I moved on to cryptography."

"You need to do your homework, Lucas."

"The public education system fails to challenge my intellect."

"Mrs. Gable said you refused to participate in art class today."

"Finger painting lacks algorithmic structure, Mom."

"You still have to try."

"Trying implies a possibility of failure. I do not fail at art. I simply reject it."

"Eat a slice of apple." I pushed the plate closer, changing the subject.

"Sugar spikes disrupt cognitive flow."

"Just one."

"Negative."

The bedroom door swung open. Julian walked in, forcefully loosening his silk tie.

"Who is rejecting what?" Julian asked.

"Art class."

"He doesn't need art." Julian bypassed me completely and leaned over the small desk. "He needs logic."

"He needs to socialize with kids his age, Julian."

"He's a genius, Theresa. Stop trying to make him average."

"I just want him to be happy."

"He is happy. Right, buddy?" Julian patted the boy's shoulder.

"Emotional states are subjective. I am currently engaged." Lucas kept his eyes on the screen.

"See?" Julian smirked at me. "He's perfectly fine."

"He had a meltdown yesterday because someone sat in his assigned chair at the library."

"Because you didn't manage his schedule properly." Julian dismissed my concern with a wave of his hand. "What are you working on now, Lucas?"

"I am compiling the string array." His small fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard. "It requires a nested loop to decrypt the ASCII values."

"Show me." Julian pointed at the monitor.

I stood there holding the fruit. Invisible in my own home.

"Your mother wouldn't understand this part," Julian muttered to Lucas.

"Mom doesn't code."

"I used to."

"That was a long time ago." Julian crossed his arms. "Let's run the execution command, Lucas."

I stepped closer, ignoring the slight. I looked at the screen.

"Eighty-seven is W."

Julian paused. He glanced at me over his shoulder. "What?"

"The first ASCII value in your array. It's a capital W."

"You remember ASCII tables?" Julian sounded genuinely surprised.

"I was top of my class, Julian. One-hundred-one is E. Thirty-two is a space."

Lucas typed rapidly. "Mom is correct. The decryption is processing."

"Let him finish it himself." The surprise morphed immediately back into annoyance.

I read the rest of the numbers on the screen. 108, 111, 118, 101. L-o-v-e.

65, 117, 110, 116. A-u-n-t.

77, 97, 110, 100, 121. M-a-n-d-y.

*We love Aunt Mandy.*

I stopped breathing for a second. My jaw locked tight. The muscles in my face turned to stone. The encouraging smile I had worn for the last twenty minutes vanished.

"Run the script," Julian ordered.

The terminal window flashed green. The text printed across the black background.

*We love Aunt Mandy.*

"The syntax is flawless." Julian squeezed Lucas's shoulder. "She's going to love this."

"Aunt Mandy appreciates logical expressions of affection."

Mandy. The ghost from Paris. Julian's first love. The woman who moved back to New York three months ago and slowly began infecting every corner of my marriage.

"Mom, your face is performing a micro-expression of distress." Lucas adjusted his glasses.

Julian finally looked at me. His gaze swept over my stiff posture.

"What is wrong with you now?"

"Who asked him to write this?" My voice trembled slightly.

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because Mandy helped me secure the new venture capital funding today. She likes Lucas. I thought a thank-you message from him would be a nice touch."

"A thank-you message that says 'We love you'?"

"Don't start this paranoid nonsense again, Theresa."

"She's been back from Paris for three months, Julian. You see her every single week."

"We work together."

"You used to sleep together."

Julian's eyes darkened. "If you're sick, go to the hospital. I'm not a doctor. Telling me is useless."

"I'm not sick. I'm your wife."

"You're acting crazy. Put the fruit down and leave us alone."

I set the glass plate on the edge of the desk. The ceramic clinked softly against the wood.

"Don't drip water on the keyboard," Julian added.

I didn't answer. I turned around and walked out, closing the door quietly behind me.

My throat began to itch the second I reached the bottom of the stairs.

I coughed, pressing a hand to my chest.

On the glass coffee table sat a massive bouquet of red roses. Dozens of them, wrapped in expensive gold paper.

I took a step back. My skin prickled. Pollen allergy. Severe.

"Lucas!"

The bedroom door upstairs opened. Footsteps approached the landing. Julian appeared, fixing his gaze down at me.

"Stop yelling." Julian gripped the wooden banister. "He's trying to focus."

"Where did these come from?" I pointed at the table.

Lucas peeked out from behind his father's legs. "I brought them inside."

"Why are there flowers here, Lucas?"

"Aunt Mandy said the house needs a relaxing scent," Lucas yelled down the stairs. "She told me to buy them with my allowance."

"You know I'm allergic to pollen."

"Aunt Mandy said exposure therapy builds immunity."

"Mandy is not a doctor!"

"Neither are you," Julian fired back.

"I am his mother! And your wife! I could go into anaphylactic shock!"

"You're being dramatic." Julian scoffed. "If you don't like them, throw them away. Stop traumatizing the boy over a nice gesture."

"A nice gesture? She is marking her territory!"

"She bought him a new jacket yesterday," I continued, anger fueling my words.

"So?"

"I already bought him a winter coat."

"Hers is better quality. Stop being ungrateful."

"She's trying to play mother to my son!”

“That’s enough Theresa, you’re mad.”

I felt my blood running cold.