Maybe Someday Little One April 17, 2009
Posted by Conrad Hubbard in : The Chip , trackbackUntil last Saturday, I didn’t think that my ex-wife could do anything else to hurt me. She already lied to me for years, cheated on me to the point she was willing to hook up with online RPG chat regulars and a random dude from Craigslist, tried to run off the half of my friends she wasn’t using and/or flirting with, put me into thousands of dollars of debt for a sham wedding (I have since paid that off, thankfully), got me into trouble with my job directly by manipulating managers and indirectly by fucking around in the same web venues which fell under my responsibility to manage, trashed my house, stole thousands of dollars of stuff (including hundred of books, scores of wedding gifts and even a computer), falsely claimed that I was abusive to her and her kids, showed up with another guy at a convention that I had to work, repeatedly pretended she wanted to work things out, and strung the divorce along so much I nearly had to pay the lawyer extra.
Seriously, that sad run-on of a sentence is just a snapshot of the ills which she rained down upon me, starting while I was a lovestruck pawn and continuing long after she had enlisted emotionally toyed-with goons to strip my house while I was out of town on business. This is a woman who was already cheating on me before we got married – I just hadn’t figured it out yet.
Anyway, I thought that it was all over, and that nothing was left but healing. The divorce was finalized last year. I haven’t seen her physically since 2007. Not only had I managed to get out of the debt she left behind, but I was saving money with astonishing speed. I had survived her attempts to sabotage my job, and discovered that my friends understood she was fucked up before I did. They didn’t have to decide whether or not to believe my side of the story because they had already seen it for themselves.
So, I said that I didn’t think there was any other way that she could hurt me. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I didn’t think that there was any other way that she would hurt me. One connection remained.
When I first met my ex-wife, Rachel, she was already pregnant. This had a remarkable impact upon me. I was there the day that her youngest daughter, Deva, was born. I cut the umbilical cord myself. I had spent my life not really wanting kids, and here I was participating in the first breathing moments of a delightful human being. As Deva grew, Rachel decided to introduce me as her father despite the fact that I was not Deva’s biological parent. Imagining that we would be together for the rest of our lives, I couldn’t see anything wrong with this – provided we explained things to her when she was old enough to understand – so I went along.
Out of her own mouth, Rachel proclaimed her daughter Deva a “daddy’s girl” because of the strong attachment the two of us formed. I drove her to daycare early in the morning, before I went to work, even though Rachel was not working. I read her bedtime stories, and stayed up with her when she had nightmares. From changing diapers to taking her to the doctor when she was sick, I was always there for her.
When Rachel left me, she left a letter telling me that she wanted to work things out, and stating that she wanted me to continue to be Deva’s “daddy” no matter what happened. Perhaps I should have understood that both of those statements were so much more garbage thrown into the pile. But, I didn’t. I explained to Rachel that I wasn’t sure that I would be able to endure the pain of keeping in touch with Deva if things didn’t work out, and she screamed at me at the top of her lungs and called me a selfish and evil person. I tried to be straightforward about the difficulties I saw if things continued to go as poorly as she was making them (remember that she had trashed my house, stolen lots of stuff, and cheated on me at this point).
Instead, I discovered that the high point of my phone calls, before the divorce, was the time I got to talk to Deva. She always seemed ecstatic to hear from me. Indeed, one of the handful of times I visited (post-leaving), Deva tried to go home with me even after we explained that she couldn’t because she would be leaving her mom. As things progressively got worse, over a long distance, the sole remaining bright spots in otherwise ugly bouts of attempts on the part of Rachel to mistreat or malign me were always her younger daughter. “Hi daddy,” she would cry in delight every time I called.
In hindsight, I was dumb to think that Rachel was done inflicting pain on those around her. Obviously, she is far more concerned with selfish desires than with the welfare of those other than herself. After the divorce, we agreed that I was only to call in order to speak to Deva. I tried to stick to hours when I knew that she would be awake, and not at school. Gradually, those hours seemed to mysteriously become fewer and further between. This past Christmas, when I spoke to Deva, I discovered that she didn’t even live with her mom. Rachel had dumped her off on her biological father’s mother. She said that I should only call on the weekends now, but even that proved difficult. Apparently, Rachel scarcely bothers to see her daughter anymore, given the regularity with which she proclaimed that Deva was not there on the weekend.
Nonetheless, the last time I spoke to Deva, she still happily called me “daddy” despite me not being her biological parent. She did tell me that she had “another father” and I figured that finally Rachel must have decided that she might be ready to understand her real situation. I figured that she might be getting an opportunity to adjust to the idea of her real father and still maintain connections with the person she called Dad for almost 7 years. But no. On last Saturday, April 11th, Rachel decided to finally tell me that she wasn’t going to let me talk to Deva anymore.
Congratulations, Rachel. I guess you have proved that you could hurt me one more time, nearly two years later. It seems pretty crappy of you to continue to hurt your daughter in the process, but I guess that is just what you do. Your screaming rants and written demands to keep talking to Deva were just another game? Why didn’t you just tell me this was your plan, two years ago? At least Deva and I would have known that we were saying goodbye.
Maybe someday, little one. I love you and I miss you. I hope that you will meet your biological father, and that the two of you will form a strong and positive bond. But, someday, when you are older, I hope somebody or other will stumble across this, and decide to look me up and tell you how to reach me. I hope that somehow all of the pain and anger that your mother has caused can be set aside, and we can still talk again. I hope that if you read this, you will understand that I love your mother but right now I am angry and upset about the terrible things that she has done. I hope that somehow you and I can be okay anyway. Maybe we exchange holiday cards. Maybe we sit around and talk about your life. I don’t know what sort of miraculous world could allow this, but I hope that somehow your mother makes things right for you and someday we still get a chance to laugh about the Rainbow Fairy Queen and other stories.
Comments»
Conrad, I met you 10 or 11 years ago online. reading your poetry. We were friends for a long time.. My heart aches for all the pain you have been through.. It is very sad you can not talk to Deva.. I pray she will find this some day..