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That doesn't mean that I don't miss him. That I don't still wish that he’d walk through that door, with that fierce look of his, all hotness, ready to fight.
Ready to fight for me. Ready to fight for us.
But his name isn't on the list, and he doesn't come.
It rips my heart in two that he doesn’t show up, and yet I know this is exactly what I asked of him. So why does it hurt so much?
Taking clients one at a time, I power through with sheer determination, grateful that I am now experienced enough that muscle memory carries me through.
Between sessions I check up on my daughter via video—watching her coloring a sheet of paper with delight, building a stack of blocks only for some other kid to knock them down and make her cry, watching her tongue poke out as she concentrates on tying her shoes with the teacher's aide helping her along. My heart breaks for her over the ramifications of her father being gone. He may not have been kind to me, but he was always there for her—and now he's not.
It just isn't fair, not to Emmy, not to me. The only man I've ever truly loved has betrayed me, and all I want is more from him and our relationship.
Half an hour before my next client, I have some breathing room. I sit in my break room on an overstuffed chair and reach for the switch on my kettle. It’s time for early afternoon tea. Breathing in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, I massage my shoulders, arms, and hands as I prepare for the next client. Suddenly I pull out my phone—it's time to check up on Emmy again.
I don't see her at first, but since this isn't the first time that's happened, I don't think much of it. I drink my tea, the scalding liquid welcome to my fraught nerves. I shut off my phone, close my eyes and meditate for a minute. But the fact that I didn't see Emmy on that last surveillance shot nags at me, has me worried.
I open the app again, and search for her. I remind myself that the last time I lost her on the camera, she was in dress-up clothes. I look for her little white shoes, the pretty ones with the buckles that she picked out for me to buy her. I don't see them.
My heart begins to beat a little faster. I drum my fingers on the tabletop, and this time when I bring the teacup to my lips, my hand shakes.
The teacher’s there, the teacher’s aide is there.
And then the tops of her little white shoes come into view.
Something tells me that this isn't right.
Emmy’s once again dressed in a costume, but this time it’s a dinosaur.
She hates dinosaurs, ever since we went to a dinosaur exhibit at the local zoo. She was scared. She would never dress up in a dinosaur costume.
I'm standing, looking at the video, staring at my daughter’s shoes. I swallow hard. She toddles around, and everyone seems to be going about as normal.
A couple of the kids are hanging their jackets up in the closet, they've just come from outside. Outside, where there's a playground, and a parking lot. My mind begins to spin.
Outside, where anyone could just come right up to one of them when someone wasn't looking…
I'm letting my thoughts get away from me again.
I have to stop going into panic mode every time I think someone I love isn't safe.
I try to breathe and let it out again, and once again I wish that Ricco was here with me. I wish that he would hold my hand and tell me to relax. He knew how to soothe me. He would go down there himself and make sure that Emmy was okay, I know he would.
And for the first time since I broke up with him, or left him, or whatever it is that I did, I justify in my mind that Ricco is a good man. Maybe not by other people’s standards, but he's the most dependable, loyal man I know.
Feeling like a total idiot, I call the school.
The secretary answers on the fifth ring. "Hello?"
"Hi," I say brightly. "I'm so sorry. It's Emmy’s mom, Daniella. I was just watching their class on their surveillance, and I don't know. Something seems off. Can I talk to Emmy for a second on the phone?"
“We don’t normally take parent phone calls during the day,” she says kindly but firmly. “Parents get worried about their kids often. It’s hard being separated like this, we understand. But it’s best if you can wait until school is over to chat with her.”
“You don’t understand. She isn’t on the camera.”
She’s quiet for a minute. “I’m going to go check on this. Please hold.”
