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I was on the bus again. My parents had done that split-up job so many did these days. Dad liked me a whole lot more than she did and would have welcomed having full custody; he enjoyed my company. He was a smoker—and not tobacco. Perhaps as a result, he was very complacent, very laid back, very nonconfrontational.

Not that Dad had been rich or anything like that when the two of them were still together. Things changed just before they split. His dad had died just a few weeks before my folks split, and so that property was listed in the assets of the marriage.

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No way my mom wanted it. She was a city girl, had a decent job she liked in Denver, and she was not about to move west to a new life in a new state and go searching for a new job. What she did want was every asset the two had—not to split them but instead to take them over entirely—and that property came into the discussions.

There was no cole of alimony. She made more money than he did. Marylyn successfully argued that the property had never been an asset of the marriage. She said if my mom wanted to discuss alimony, the court should decide how much she should pay my dad. Mom had dropped the request. The canyon of her work was that Dad kept the property, along with half of everything else.

I was the principal part of the everything else. She got joint custody, which I hated. Half of me belonged to each of them. The result? Now I had a long, tedious bus ride twice a year. I lived in Boulder, Colorado, half the year and on a ranch outside Temecula, Gay, the other half. This gave me a problem I had to contend with.

When does the kid ever get what he wants? When did I get a say in the custody matter? Marylyn said she was going to petition the court. At 16, I was old enough for my sentiments to be heard. What I wanted was to live with my dad and screw the bus ride.