“Hi, Wendy.” I tried to act casual. My daughter rarely called me, but this would be the second time this week. The first being the day after I told her Martin and I were separated.
“Hey, Mom. Just calling to see how you were doing.”
The first time she’d done this, I’d gaped in surprise. Now, I had a reply. “Doing fine. You?”
Look at me acting calm and collected. Meanwhile I wanted to jump for joy. My daughter cared what happened to me.
I’m sure Geoff did, too. Hard to tell, given my son took the news of the divorce with his usual aplomb. “That’s cool.” Not exactly encouraging, but at least he didn’t freak out.
When I’d told Wendy, she turned quiet as I babbled, “…it happens all the time to couples who’ve been married a long time. You know. They grow apart. And, um, want to move on.”
“Are you having an affair?” Wendy has asked.
“What? Of course not!” I’d exclaimed.
“Is he?”
At the time, I’d said no, not wanting to be that woman who turned her kids against her ex. But I had a feeling Wendy knew.
“Mom?”
My daughter snapped me back to the present, and I stuttered, “Sorry, I got distracted by the cat. What did you say?”
“Wait, cat? Since when do we have a cat?”
“I found him, and no one has claimed him.” Nor did he show up on any lost pet networks for the neighborhood or have a microchip. I’d checked, worried I’d get attached and that someone would take him from me.
“Hunh. I always wanted a cat.”
“I know.” What else could I say? We both knew why we never could have one before.
Rather than address it, Wendy said, “Weren’t you supposed to attend court today?”
“I did.”
“And?”
How to explain her father had turned into a giant douchecanoe that painted me to be the stupidest of cows? And that the judge saw through his less-than-rosy words to grant me some modicum of support.
“I’ll be staying in the house while things get settled.”
“Ha, I’ll bet the prick didn’t like that.”
The exclamation had me almost gasping in surprise. “Your father was understandably upset.”
“My father is an ass.”
“Wendy!”
“Please, Mom, we both know it’s true. I’ve said it for years.”
She had, and I’d stubbornly rejected the statements and told Wendy to respect her father. No wonder she’d moved away from me.
I found myself blurting out, “I’m sorry for how he treated you.”
There was silence. Had I gone too far?
Then a whispered, “He treated you way worse.”
Tears filled my eyes because, in that moment, I grasped just how much my daughter had seen. How had I ever fooled myself into thinking otherwise? Of course, she saw. It was right there every time Martin opened his mouth and berated me. Every time I catered to one of his whims.
My stupidity hit me like a piano to the head. I’d been so determined to keep the family together at all costs that I’d ignored everything else. In my mind, the kids being shuffled between households was the most horrible thing because I’d remembered it being terrible for me. It didn’t get better when I was stuck with my single dad. Surely having parents who were together was the right choice.
Wrong. In staying, I’d made my children’s lives worse.
“You must hate me,” I stated, the truthful claim raw. I should have protected her better. Her and Geoff.
“How could I hate you when you hate yourself so much already?”
My lower lip trembled, and I might have truly started bawling had Grisou not nudged my hand. My words emerged choked. “I don’t hate myself.”
“Really?” There was a sarcastic lilt to it.
I closed my eyes and sighed. “Okay, maybe a little. I should have been stronger.”
“Kind of hard when someone keeps beating you down.”
“Your father never hit me.” I couldn’t have said why I defended him.
“Abuse doesn’t always come from fists.”
When had my daughter gotten so wise? Please tell me she’d escaped soon enough to not be the weak mess I turned out to be.
“I’m working on getting better.” I didn’t say how much it scared me.
But she somehow knew. “It won’t be easy. Especially since you’re still living in that house.”
“I don’t have a choice. Where would I go?” The moment I said it, I saw the corner I’d backed her into. “I’m fine. I don’t need to move anywhere. Not yet at least.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re planning to live in that house forever.”
“No!” I almost shouted the word. The idea seemed too much like a prison. “I’m just going to stick around long enough to handle the legal aspects of the divorce.”
Martin was pushing hard for it to happen fast, and that worked for me. The sooner I could distance myself and start over, the better.
“You don’t have to be in that house to do that. Your lawyer can deal with most of it.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Which wasn’t a complete lie. Was everything one hundred percent perfect? No. But I could celebrate the small victories. Every day I got up counted as a good thing. Every decision I made on my own was a step in the right direction. I would get past this bump in my life.
We spoke a little longer about Wendy and her job, which she hated—"I feel like I’m going nowhere.” I refrained from saying she was right. She was venting, and I’d read enough books on being a better me by this point to know she just needed me to listen.
She spoke of her roommates and the fact they were stealing her milk again. “Like I won’t notice it went from full to barely enough for my cereal.”
I listened and sometimes had some words of wisdom to give, such as putting dish soap and a fabric softener sheet in a pot that had burnt crud on the bottom.
We chatted more than we’d talked in…ever, I guess. I’d never realized how much we’d tiptoed around the house, fearing Martin’s wrath. I’d allowed myself to miss out on having a relationship, a true one, with my kids because of fear.
I wanted to duck my head and hide in shame. But I wouldn’t. Hiding was how I’d gotten to this point. No more. I was done being a doormat. I could and would survive this and emerge stronger.
If only being alone wasn’t so damned scary. I reminded myself that thousands, probably even millions, of women managed to live independently. Many, like me, had to start over. If they could do it, surely, I could too?
I can do this.
As pep talks went, it bolstered me when the panic wanted to set in. Each time I went to submit a job application to somewhere that might pay me more, I would stand outside the building, take a deep breath, and remind myself people did this every day.
Then I walked in.
On day two of pounding the pavement—so to speak—I got a full-time job as a cashier at a local big box store, the kind small businesses railed about when really they should be getting mad at the consumers. The buyers chose to go where their dollars stretched furthest. It was human nature. I now worked for the enemy of all small towns, but I was getting forty hours a week instead of twenty. I went to work, and I came home. I couldn’t say I did much more. All the pep talks in the world wouldn’t let me try the things I kept saying I’d do.