I have a husband. I also have an ex, who I wasn’t married to, who I share a child with. At times this can be trying. I plot fictional murders and tragic car accidents in my head. I consider myself an optimist; my therapist thinks otherwise. My daughter is thirteen. Her father, the ex, just returned from Afghanistan where he worked as an independent contractor. He’s thirty-five, single, has no bills, and doesn’t want to be saddled with a teenage girl. As of last Thursday he was not going to be able to see our daughter this weekend, per court-ordered visitation. Then, he calls to let me know he’s going to Mexico. Great, try not to get sunburned.
It’s now Friday and he calls, finally. My daughter had been crying just hours before because he hadn’t bothered to call all week or answer the messages I left for him on his cell phone. He can mess with me all he likes, but my daughter is another story. I would, and still might, kill for her or any of my other children. He tells me that he knocked on my door and no one answered. Hmmm, I didn’t hear him, the dog didn’t bark and foam at the mouth like he usually does when someone dares knock on the door. He gets snippy. Bad move, I have pre-PMS. I informed him that I tried to call him multiple times this week and he never returned my calls. He replies with the same ole, “I wasn’t in the country ... ” line. I’m not in the mood to argue. I popped a biggie on him ... “You know she has a track meet tomorrow.” He plays dumb; he’s so good at it. “I thought she had one yesterday.” I came back with, “They have more than one a week. You’ll need to have her there at 10:00 a.m. She throws at 11:00 a.m.” He looks at me like I’m crazy (that is a lot of driving), but nods his head and says he’ll have her there. I can’t see this situation lasting much longer. He never was one for responsibility. His arrogance and self-centeredness never cease to amaze me. Maybe he’ll get weighed down with responsibility here and will decide to go back where he belongs—away.
