After the Burn

The Leper at the Door It’s drop-off time. Grace waits in the car with her overnight bag ready for the five-minute commute across town to get to her father’s home, my former home, my daughters’ home. It is a time of transitioning for us both. For me, it is from warmth, bonding, and normalcy (being with my daughter) to different, sadness, and childlessness. For her, I can’t be certain, but I suspect there is sadness too, leaving one parent whom she loves to be with her father and sister whom she misses and loves as well. Sometimes, my eyes have filled with tears; sometimes it’s her eyes. At times, we laugh and feel happy with the experiences during our time we’ve shared and continue riding those waves of peace and calm until they run their course and we arrive at our destination. At other times, she’s texting and making plans or communicating with friends while I sit in silence reflecting on our time spent together or making mental notes of what I’ll need to do once I come home. Without fail, I get a twinge of sorrow as I pull up to the driveway, politely keeping my distance by parking at the edge of the drive. Yet, I keep up my smile, laughter, or conversation for the sake of my daughter. But really, deep down where I really live, I want to cry. I want to be mothered and be held. I want someone to tell me, preferably my own mother who has since passed, “Tina, it will all be all right. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. You’ll see. This is part of the big plan. Eventually, both girls will be back in your life, and you’ll be able to clearly see that this is right, for now—what is right for all of you.” Many times, Grace has texted her father or sister during the drive to her home to warn them that she is coming and to unlock the door for her. I nearly always walk her to the front door. Frequently, I point out and lecture that any young man she decides to date should do the same: walk her to the door. It’s a sign of respect. It means she is worth the extra effort, and by God, that child is so worth that extra effort. So as we saunter up the drive that leads to the door, her bag in hand and me with any extra accessories of hers, we endure the same routine. If the door is unlocked, we simply hug and kiss, and off my precious girl goes. If no one is home or Marie chooses to not answer, this means we schlep ourselves over to the garage and enter the door code, and it is from here we hug, kiss, and say our goodbyes. If the door is locked, we stand together as she knocks and rings the doorbell; I stay silent and affectionate, pretending all is normal. At times, like today, her father will stroll up the hallway, unlock the door, stand behind it so as not to be seen, and carefully make an opening just large enough for her to slip inside. He knows I stand there with Grace. His voice is often pleasant and boisterous as he welcomes her home. On his part, there has not been one iota of recognition that I exist in that space. He has never initiated a conversation on that doorstep since the estrangement began. Truthfully, neither do I. Initially, I was too full of rage to even think about saying hello regardless of whether it was the right thing to do for Grace. How could I say hello? My other daughter was sitting a few yards down the hall inside that house. I just can’t say hi. There’s too much resentment. I resent not knowing anything about Marie. I resent that she lives with him, and he has her all to himself. I resent having lost her. I resent and blame and rage inside. I resent that after twenty-seven years and two children, Warren doesn’t acknowledge my existence. In his eyes, I don’t exist as a mother—not even as a human being. normalcy (being with my daughter) to different, sadness, and childlessness. For her, I can’t be certain, but I suspect there is sadness too, leaving one parent whom she loves to be with her father and sister whom she misses and loves as well. Sometimes, my eyes have filled with tears; sometimes it’s her eyes. At times, we laugh and feel happy with the experiences during our time we’ve shared and continue riding those waves of peace and calm until they run their course and we arrive at our destination. At other times, she’s texting and making plans or communicating with friends while I sit in silence reflecting on our time spent together or making mental notes of what I’ll need to do once I come home. Without fail, I get a twinge of sorrow as I pull up to the driveway, politely keeping my distance by parking at the edge of the drive. Yet, I keep up my smile, laughter, or conversation for the sake of my daughter. But really, deep down where I really live, I want to cry. I want to be mothered and be held. I want someone to tell me, preferably my own mother who has since passed, “Tina, it will all be all right. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. You’ll see. This is part of the big plan. Eventually, both girls will be back in your life, and you’ll be able to clearly see that this is right, for now—what is right for all of you.” Many times, Grace has texted her father or sister during the drive to her home to warn them that she is coming and to unlock the door for her. I nearly always walk her to the front door. Frequently, I point out and lecture that any young man she decides to date should do the same: walk her to the door. It’s a sign of respect. It means she is worth the extra effort, and by God, that child is so worth that extra effort. So as we saunter up the drive that leads to the door, her bag in hand and me with any extra accessories of hers, we endure the same routine. If the door is unlocked, we simply hug and kiss, and off my precious girl goes. If no one is home or Marie chooses to not answer, this means we schlep ourselves over to the garage and enter the door code, and it is from here we hug, kiss, and say our goodbyes. If the door is locked, we stand together as she knocks and rings the doorbell; I stay silent and affectionate, pretending all is normal. At times, like today, her father will stroll up the hallway, unlock the door, stand behind it so as not to be seen, and carefully make an opening just large enough for her to slip inside. He knows I stand there with Grace. His voice is often pleasant and boisterous as he welcomes her home. On his part, there has not been one iota of recognition that I exist in that space. He has never initiated a conversation on that doorstep since the estrangement began. Truthfully, neither do I. Initially, I was too full of rage to even think about saying hello regardless of whether it was the right thing to do for Grace. How could I say hello? My other daughter was sitting a few yards down the hall inside that house. I just can’t say hi. There’s too much resentment. I resent not knowing anything about Marie. I resent that she lives with him, and he has her all to himself. I resent having lost her. I resent and blame and rage inside. I resent that after twenty-seven years and two children, Warren doesn’t acknowledge my existence. In his eyes, I don’t exist as a mother—not even as a human being.