“Listen, honey. You’re going to have a great time at your dad’s place. We just got a new trampoline! Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“Is he tired? Does he need a nap?” Matt asks.
No, just a father who actually gives a shit might help.
“You have to go, okay? I’m so sorry, baby. You have to go, but Mommy will be here to pick you back up before you know it.”
Dawson walks over to his brother, wearing a mature look of determination. “Come on, brother. Let’s go.”
He reaches for Dutton’s hand. He takes it, sniffling as he walks toward Matt, Sandy, and the social worker.
Sandy pats my arm. “I’ll text you as soon as we make it home, okay? Don’t worry about them. We’re going to have fun together.”
I try to form a smile for her, but I don’t know how convincing it is.
They get into the car, and I’m thankful that at least I know he won’t be drinking and driving with the kids.
I get back into the driver’s seat of my car and watch them drive out of the Walmart parking lot before letting the tears fall.
He was assigned to at-home weekend visits while we try to come to an agreement on how to move forward with custody. The supervisor will drive with him to his house, and he’s not supposed to leave unless she’s with him.
Who makes sure he doesn’t leave? No one. It’s the good ol’ honor system.
Thank God for Sandy. I know she’ll take care of the boys, even if her son won’t.
My lawyer, Diana Hagen, fought hard, finally convincing the judge that Matt’s blood alcohol content was so high when they tested him that it had to have been at least double the legal limit when he was driving the boys, based on the one drink he was served in the bar.
But Matt has since hired a lawyer, and we have a court date set in two weeks. Diana says he’s a scumbag who will come at me from all angles when I’m on the stand. As soon as she saw the lawyer’s name, her demeanor changed from positive outlook to concentrated negativity. She hinted that the judge and that lawyer together were a bad mix for us. She called them a ‘boys’ club.’
Turns out, misogyny is alive and well in the public justice system.
I turn my minivan back on and exit the Walmart parking lot, my grief quickly morphing into rage.
My voice takes on a mocking tone. “Matt’s just a good dad, doing his best to parent after his whore wife upped and left him. It’s me; I’m the whore wife. He made aonetimebad decision. Should he be punished so severely for one little mistake? Why do I hate him so much when he’s trying to be involved in their lives? You know, some dads don’t even try. After all, boysneeda father figure.”
If I’m not careful, my feminist tirade will make me do something reckless. My record is squeaky clean, but at thispoint, I feel like I could crash my car into the side of Walmart and not feel a single thing.
My body has grown numb.
Matt’s smug expression when I arrived at the drop-off spot reminded me of the one he always wore when we fought. He’d make terrifying threats, and he ultimately always got his way through fear and intimidation tactics.
I scheduled therapy for after drop-off for a reason. I knew I’d need to talk to someone.
I arrive at the office a few minutes prior to my appointment, taking a deep breath before I go in. We meet online when I’m not able to make the hour drive to his office.
I push open the glass door leading into the bland office suite. The low-pile carpet inside is a dingy brown.
The receptionist smiles at me. “He’s ready for you if you want to go on back.”
“Okay, thank you.”
I walk into Dr. Stone’s office. He smiles at me before taking a sip from his mug of hot tea.
“Dallas, nice to see you. Please have a seat.”
I plant myself in the center of the navy fabric sofa. I grab a striped throw pillow and hug it to my stomach.
I hate therapy. HATE IT.
