help us learn how to work through this stuff. We keep going round and round on the same issues.”
He gave me a cold stare. “No,
you
keep going round and round on them. You nitpick everything. If anyone needs a therapist, it’s you.”
Did he really not see we had problems? Could he be that self-absorbed? My eyes went dry and a cold sensation crept into my chest. I suddenly realized that not only was I unsure if I still loved Martin, I was pretty certain that I didn’t like him anymore. I met his stare with one of my own. “Are you saying you won’t even try to fix this with me?”
“There’s nothing for me to fix. I’m being the provider we agreed I would be. You and Charlie want for nothing. If you think we have issues, they’ve got nothing to do with me.”
I did go see a therapist briefly, who agreed that if Martin was unwilling to work on our marriage, it was most likely doomed. I also asked her about Charlie, since I worried about how a divorce might affect him. “Happy kids have happy parents,” she said, peering at me over her bifocals with kind gray eyes. “Witnessing the two of you constantly at each other’s throats could inflict much worse damage on his development.”
Armed with this knowledge, and after a few more months of Martin’s continued denial of our problems, I gathered up the courage to contact a lawyer and tell my husband I wanted a divorce. He was shocked and angry, but surprisingly didn’t put up much of a fight when I asked him to leave. I decided my son and I would be fine. My mother had been a single parent. So had Alice. I had no doubt I could do it, too. Martin was gone all the time anyway. I’d been on my own all along.
The day Martin moved out for good, he stood in front of me in our living room, bags packed. He searched my eyes with his. The fury in his face was so pronounced it almost looked like he was wearinga mask. He inhaled deeply and released the breath with a hiss, like a punctured tire. My gaze traveled the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the high, smooth forehead, the full curve of his lips. I thought how Mother Nature took the best of both of us and put it all into our son.
He took a step toward me and I immediately stiffened, anticipating his touch. He saw this and stopped just short of me. There was barely an inch between us. I could smell him, the woodsy warmth of his favorite soap, the cinnamon spice of his skin.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
I nodded, a sharp, quick movement, my lips pressed together in a straight, hard line. A new coldness resided in me after his final refusal to even consider counseling; a chunk of ice moved over my heart and froze any feeling I had left for him. I felt distant, detached. It’s not something I chose, just something that was.
“Okay, then,” he said, turning around to grab the last of his bags. “I guess that’s it.” The door closed behind him and a moment later, though he’d only just left, it was almost as if he’d never lived there at all.
Three
C harlie! You need to turn off the television and come talk with me.” It was nine o’clock on a cool June morning, and I stood in his bedroom with my hands on my hips, staring at a scribbled mess on the wall. Only a month shy of his fourth birthday and my son considered himself a Van Gogh, regardless of the medium upon which he chose to display his work.
His face popped around the doorway, his eyes darting from me to the wall. “What, Mama?”
I pointed at the wall. “Did you do this?”
“No.” He dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Don’t lie to me, Charles Sutter.” I swore I wouldn’t be one of those mothers who used her child’s full name as a threat, but there I was.
“I’m
not.
” He stomped his little foot.
I went over to him and crouched down, taking one of his hands in mine. “Sweetie. No one else lives here but us, and Mommy knows
she
didn’t color on the wall. So I’ll ask you one more time. Did you do this?”
His dark
He gave me a cold stare. “No,
you
keep going round and round on them. You nitpick everything. If anyone needs a therapist, it’s you.”
Did he really not see we had problems? Could he be that self-absorbed? My eyes went dry and a cold sensation crept into my chest. I suddenly realized that not only was I unsure if I still loved Martin, I was pretty certain that I didn’t like him anymore. I met his stare with one of my own. “Are you saying you won’t even try to fix this with me?”
“There’s nothing for me to fix. I’m being the provider we agreed I would be. You and Charlie want for nothing. If you think we have issues, they’ve got nothing to do with me.”
I did go see a therapist briefly, who agreed that if Martin was unwilling to work on our marriage, it was most likely doomed. I also asked her about Charlie, since I worried about how a divorce might affect him. “Happy kids have happy parents,” she said, peering at me over her bifocals with kind gray eyes. “Witnessing the two of you constantly at each other’s throats could inflict much worse damage on his development.”
Armed with this knowledge, and after a few more months of Martin’s continued denial of our problems, I gathered up the courage to contact a lawyer and tell my husband I wanted a divorce. He was shocked and angry, but surprisingly didn’t put up much of a fight when I asked him to leave. I decided my son and I would be fine. My mother had been a single parent. So had Alice. I had no doubt I could do it, too. Martin was gone all the time anyway. I’d been on my own all along.
The day Martin moved out for good, he stood in front of me in our living room, bags packed. He searched my eyes with his. The fury in his face was so pronounced it almost looked like he was wearinga mask. He inhaled deeply and released the breath with a hiss, like a punctured tire. My gaze traveled the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the high, smooth forehead, the full curve of his lips. I thought how Mother Nature took the best of both of us and put it all into our son.
He took a step toward me and I immediately stiffened, anticipating his touch. He saw this and stopped just short of me. There was barely an inch between us. I could smell him, the woodsy warmth of his favorite soap, the cinnamon spice of his skin.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
I nodded, a sharp, quick movement, my lips pressed together in a straight, hard line. A new coldness resided in me after his final refusal to even consider counseling; a chunk of ice moved over my heart and froze any feeling I had left for him. I felt distant, detached. It’s not something I chose, just something that was.
“Okay, then,” he said, turning around to grab the last of his bags. “I guess that’s it.” The door closed behind him and a moment later, though he’d only just left, it was almost as if he’d never lived there at all.
Three
C harlie! You need to turn off the television and come talk with me.” It was nine o’clock on a cool June morning, and I stood in his bedroom with my hands on my hips, staring at a scribbled mess on the wall. Only a month shy of his fourth birthday and my son considered himself a Van Gogh, regardless of the medium upon which he chose to display his work.
His face popped around the doorway, his eyes darting from me to the wall. “What, Mama?”
I pointed at the wall. “Did you do this?”
“No.” He dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Don’t lie to me, Charles Sutter.” I swore I wouldn’t be one of those mothers who used her child’s full name as a threat, but there I was.
“I’m
not.
” He stomped his little foot.
I went over to him and crouched down, taking one of his hands in mine. “Sweetie. No one else lives here but us, and Mommy knows
she
didn’t color on the wall. So I’ll ask you one more time. Did you do this?”
His dark
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