by S. L. Finlay
But he wanted none of that. He wanted me to be the stupid little wife who sat at home with all the other stupid little wives while he gallivanted about, taking other women as he pleased.
My heart still hurt, I still burned from the pain of his betrayal whenever I allowed myself to think about it. It had been over five years - almost six years - since I had found out the news, but it was as fresh and painful as if it had happened yesterday.
I loved this man, with all of my soul, and all he could think about was -
Then I forced myself to stop thinking about it, I had work to do. Important work. I was editing a front-page story. This front page would be this particular journalists first too, and I knew she would be especially proud. I wanted to do her editing some justice, not just because it was a front page, either.
I could choose to be bitter about the whole situation with my daughter that had already, or I could choose to get some work done in the here and now.
*
That week passed in a blur of work (all done from home) and my daughter learning to walk on new crutches. The former was difficult with all the distractions of home and the later was exciting - at least for my daughter, who was learning to walk in a new way - I knew she loved this plaster, at least the newness and novelty of it and the attention it got her, as well as adoring the friends signatures she was collecting.
On Wednesday evening, when she had come home, she had told me about the parts of the plaster she was saving for family, "this is the bit I want you to write on, mommy." She told me before showing me another part at the back of her leg and saying, "I will keep this clear, for if you ever find me a daddy."
Her words were spoken so sweetly that they made my heart stop. I knew who her father was, and wanted to tell her, wanted to show her the images and to talk about him. But I didn't. I couldn't. I simply nodded my head slightly and told her, "maybe one day, sweetheart."
Then, like a flash, she was onto talking about something else. Thank god for that.
The Thursday was much the same between work and my daughter babbling about her friends at school and what they all thought of the plaster.
By the time Friday morning came around - heralding the end of my work week - I gave a big sigh of relief, today was the day where I got a resolution to the worry that had been eating me up, what exactly had happened on Monday when my daughter had been deserted by the school who had taken no responsibility for her welfare beyond calling an ambulance.
I wasn't going to wait for the school to call me, instead after dropping my daughter off, I would go into the office and seek a meeting with the principal first thing - at a time that suited me - and would get this matter resolved quickly, and with as little fuss, pomp and ceremony as I could.
Institutions liked to make a big deal out of things. They liked to do things to make themselves look better, to make themselves stand out and to make themselves 'special', the truth was institutions were lazy, because they were run by, and worked in by, people who didn't care about their jobs.
In this school, I knew that no-one particularly cared about their jobs outside of a few outstanding teachers who had not yet been burned out by the rigors of their jobs. Beyond them, there wasn't really anyone.
Admin staff were just admin staff.
Cleaners were just cleaners.
Child care workers were just child care workers.
If your job didn't light you up, it was hard to be as perfect as an institution pretended you were. But that never stopped the institution from pretending you were fabulous all over their marketing material.
When I arrived at the office, I saw that same old, no-one caring about their job. I could see the office staff knew why I was there and were indifferent to it. I could see they didn't really care about me, or my daughter, and that this was just a job to them.
No care and no responsibility.
Then, after waiting for twenty minutes, the principal saw fit to see me. I walked into his office, acutely aware that this man was wasting my time.
"Please, sit down." He said, taking charge of the situation. I rolled my eyes so he couldn't see them and sat down across from him.
Then he had the audacity to pretend not to know what this meeting was about. "How can I help you today?" Was met by a cold stare.
Then the principal finally copped onto himself and told me, "okay, well, I understand your daughter was hurt and you want to know why the proper procedures were not acted out, is this correct?" He asked me.
I gave one quick nod. "Yes, that is correct." I told him. Feeling the frustration and anger bubble within me.
"Okay." The principal began, "well, I have spoken to those involved, and they have told me they were extremely busy that day, and like I said to you on the phone, it was simply an oversights that no-one was sent to the hospital with her." He told me briskly, because obviously this news mattered less to him than it did to me. Less to him than it should have mattered to someone in his position.
"Right." I said, my jaw clenched. "What's your excuse about why I wasn't informed?" I asked.
"You were informed, you told me yourself." He told me.
"A five year old boy told me my daughter had been hurt when the bus pulled up and she wasn't on it." I told him, "that is not being informed."
"Well," He began, "you were still told, were you not?"
Frustration rose within my body, I wanted to hit this man in the face, to smack all his teeth out. I wanted to teach him a lesson, to show him that it wasn't okay to treat me, or my daughter, like he had. But something stopped me. That rational voice inside my head that always stopped me from kicking peoples asses was what did it. I knew it wasn't a good idea to teach this guy a lesson with my fists. I was a writer before I was an editor, and I always had my words.
"So, you're telling me this isn't a big deal to you, are you?" I asked.
The principal shifted in his chair before telling me, "I am not saying that, no." He told me in stiff tones.
"Then what exactly are you telling me?" I asked him, "because I am unsure what you mean. It seems you are implying that this is no big deal and that the teachers were well within their rights - because they were busy - to neglect their duty of care to my daughter. They have legal obligations to her, as do you. Am I to take it that you are not going to exercise those obligations then?" I tried my hardest to keep my tone level, even as the urge to punch his teeth out was strong.
"I - um - what?" He said, "I don't know what you mean. I was just saying that-"
I cut him off, "what are you saying? Because it sounded like neglect to me. So, please let me know if it's anything but."
Then, his tone changed. "Okay." He said, "okay, okay, okay - I will take action."
"What action will be taken?" I asked, frustrated still, but feeling as if I may just be winning the argument. I felt big and powerful, even as I was the one with less power as he had tried to show me with the twenty minute wait, I did know about his responsibilities and like all good Americans, I could always sue. I knew enough lawyers now.
The principal took a big breath, puffing up his chest as he inhaled. He took that breath, then looked me square in the eye as he answered, "I will need to look further into precedents that have been set, and speak to the school board, before I do anything." He told me.
I knew these were all things he should have done already. If he had of been doing his job properly, he would have been in touch with these people, and done the things he told me he was about to do. If he was serious, and I knew he wasn't, he would have disciplined them and been using this meeting to tell me how he had done it.
If he was serious, I wouldn't need to tell him what to do. We would also have had a set meeting time, rather then me coming in here and not having a set meeting time, rather, just forcing a meeting on him after he had told me already that we would have a meeting.
Having to deal with this level of apathy was hard. Having to deal with someone who obviously wasn't serious about what they wer
e doing was harder. I needed to get this guy to take things more seriously, and I couldn't.
It's like smacking your head against a brick wall, it feels real good when you stop.
Heaving a deep sigh, I looked him in the eye finally and told him that that would be fine, even though I knew in my heart - and wasn't going to tell him - that I knew he was full of shit and not doing his job before, I couldn't level that accusation at him now. I couldn't use it, because I knew it would stop him doing his job now.
So I sat there, I said my thank you and I asked when I would know more about it. When I would know what had happened.
The principal looked a little surprised at my desire to know deadlines, which surprised me. It was normal for people to want to know deadlines. For working people in other industries had them, why did he think he was any different?
But I tried not to dwell on the frustration of having to deal with this incompetent and inconsiderate idiot. If I didn't get the result I wanted and had to go to the school board or higher, then this man dragging his feet would help me more in the long run. Right now though, I had to jot down when I would know anything by - close of business Friday.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Being a single parent is difficult, especially when you're living with the ghost of the man who you used to love, and who is your babies father.
I am not an idiot, I do know he isn't totally how I remember him. I know he had more faults than I remember, I know the way I remember him is through rose tinted glasses, aged by time. If I had to live with the man, I might not love him as much. Absence is likely making the heart grow fonder in this case. If I had to live with him for example I might find it annoying the way he leaves his socks on the floor for me to clean up or the way he farts in bed.
But, then I might not as well.
Because I had made that decision to leave, I will never know what happened if I had of stayed. I will never know how things would have been, how they could have been. Because I left.
I didn't normally regret leaving, because leaving was the best thing I could have done at the time for both me and my daughter. Because I left, I was able to live a more full and happy life. I was able to pursue my career harder when I didn't have to give up my time to aid him in his career. My home was always clean because I didn't have him messing it up as I cleaned it. My child was being raised the way I wanted her to be, without the influence of a second parent to mess it up, to contradict me when I am doing the right thing by my child, or the right thing for my child.
Even though Daddy had been a military man, he wasn't one for direct confrontation like I was. When he had an intellectual confrontation, rather than a physical one - which he mastered, of course, being the big army man and no stranger to physical confrontations - he wouldn't know what to do.
If it were Daddy who had to have that argument with the apathetic principal, disinterested in doing his job properly, Daddy would have wanted to take the other man outside and fix him up. Instead, I managed to get the right resolution from him. A resolution that wouldn't have come from swinging a fist.
I wondered sometimes, what Daddy thought when he did arrive home. He would have been told through the chain of people who monitor your life as an army spouse that I no longer lived there. Gossiping wives would have told their husbands that I had left and higher-ups would have passed the message that girlfriend (de facto partner) living in house number five had told them of a change of address and the break down of their relationship and that would be that, Daddy would know I was gone.
Daddy would have known all this before he got home, but when he arrived and found the house empty and a note from me apologizing for having to leave him, what would he have done?
I knew a lot of men would just take up drinking, or slutting around. They would find something to anesthetize the pain. Either at the bottom of a bottle or between another woman's legs. That was the traditional wisdom handed out to men, just take her home and you'll feel better. I hated the thought of Daddy receiving that advice from other people.
But then, maybe Daddy didn't need to do that. If it was more than just a deployment fling, he had someone else to move on with all ready for him. He had someone who he likely would have ditched me for when he returned home.
But this was usually where my thoughts stagnated. I couldn't think any further than this, than the reality that Daddy had been with someone else and maybe it was more than just a fling. I could handle a fling, realizing that they were a way and in a dangerous situation and likely wanted some comfort. The timing when his partner was pregnant was awful though, but maybe that was all it was. I had these moments when I would reason with myself, telling myself that was all it was. But, did they help me now?
I clung to some things, things I didn't even know to be truth, because they made it easier to deal with what had happened. I clung to the thought that it wasn't anything serious between them, just like I clung to the thought that perhaps he had tried to contact me after I left but couldn't because I had deleted all social media and left my SIM card in our old house. I clung to the thought that he missed me, and that he felt the same sense of longing that I did. Even as I saw no proof of that. I couldn't see the proof because I had removed all ways of him to show me the truth. How convenient.
Sometimes, even through all the rational thinking I did and undid in my own mind, I had days when it killed me the way things had gone. It killed me to think of how much I missed him, and how I was missing out on being with this man. I wouldn't even let myself think about how my daughter was missing out.
On those days, there was my work, or there was my daughter, or there was house work or whatever to throw myself into.
But could I keep living like this? With nothing but assumptions to keep me going and the relentless desire - one all journalists have - to know the truth?
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was after the big incident with my daughter that I started really wanting answers. The feelings inside me were churning as I realized all the things I didn't know and how I wanted to know them. I wanted so badly to have the answers. I wanted to know what had happened after I left, as well as what had happened before I had decided to leave. I wanted to know what Daddy thought of my leaving, but I figured those were not hard and fast facts about him. Not like things that I could easily find with the right database like 'when was he deployed' and 'age, sex, place of birth.'
Feelings and concrete facts about a person are different things. When it comes to wanting to know concrete facts about a person, you can find those easily enough. You can find out nearly anything about anyone in the world. Before I was en editor, when I was merely a journalist, there were plenty of things that I had no trouble finding out about. There were plenty of things that I could do a simple search and find, or do a more elaborate search and discover as required. An expert eye for research, nothing slipped by me unless I let it.
But then, when it came to the human element of stories, when it came to getting to the bottom of how bystanders felt about something, or how sportsmen felt breaking records, or how parents felt when they lost a child, you had to ask the questions. You had to get close to your subject.
Before I asked him how he felt though - or rather, found a way to find the information I needed without actually having to meet with him myself - I started researching the hard facts.
I wanted to know where he lived, if he lived with anyone else (did he marry someone else? Have another girlfriend? Was she his baby girl? The thought of another baby girl taking my place made me shudder), I needed to know if he had other children. Was he still in the army?
For what I needed, I would create a profile about him and fill in the blanks as I uncovered each piece of information. Just like I had done in my professional life as a journalist.
Whereas people who were not journalists would see what I was doing as pretty weird at best and stalking your ex at worst, I didn't see it that way when I started my research. I was simply finding out about him so I wou
ld know enough to fill in some blanks before asking the questions I really wanted the answers to. Those personal questions that would give me the closure that I needed.
This was about closure, I kept telling myself as I researched. This was about me finding out what I needed in order to move on. It was about me - and my daughter - moving on to have better, and happier lives. It wasn't about anything else.
If I hadn't had my daughter, I told myself, I wouldn't need to know anything about her father. It was important to me that I found out about her father for her sake too. It wasn't just important to me for closure, but important to her.
As I kept repeating the same things to myself: that it was about my daughter, that it was about closure, there I was using the research techniques I had learned as a journalist to track down information about my ex. Using research methods that I dismissed in my own mind as being invasive to use when it was personal, not professional. But there I was anyway, researching.
It appeared Daddy was still in the army but had moved up in the ranks. After some searching, I couldn't find evidence of a relationship, weather it was a domestic partnership or marriage. That made me feel a sense of releif as I imagined him still pining over me as much as I pined over him.
I knew that Daddy could have searched for me in the same way, and the he could have found us this way but then at the same time, I knew Daddy wasn't the type to use technology to find someone. Daddy wasn't quite like me, I thought uncomfortably as I looked through his personal information. He wasn't the type to look someone up. Perhaps when I left, he simply just got on with it. I could see him doing that.
But there was no-one else, at least not now. If he had just gotten on with it, at least I hadn't been replaced, I thought.
