Wrong Answer
Sep. 26th, 2006 02:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thisnewdayMy son Jason, twenty-two years old, is standing on the front porch talking on his cell phone. A few steps away, on the wicker couch, is my three year old grandson, Jason, Jr. It's been a year, almost to the day, since his mom and dad separated.
Since then, we've battled in court to regain a share of custody, watched a succession of girls linger briefly in our son's life and finally, in the past two weeks, experienced the predictable, the inevitable, the unbelievably painful loss of this child who's now gone to live in the home of his father's latest girlfriend.
Perhaps, my wife suggests, it would've been easier if done gradually. A series of sleepovers, maybe, to get everyone used to the idea. I look away as she says this. She's not the one who's put him to bed every night, been there to comfort him when he was restless or sick or cried in his sleep. She's not the one who's been up every morning to dress him and feed him, to provide the happiest possible start for him, each and every day.
Still, there have been those mornings when I've found myself thinking, "She seems nice enough... her little girl seems happy and well brought up... if I had to choose from all the ones we've seen our son with..."
As I step out on the porch, the phone call is ending.
"OK, love you, see you later," Jason says.
"What did you say?" the little boy asks.
"I said goodbye," his father says, and sends an exasperated look my way.
"No, you said, 'I love you,'" the little boy insists.
"So?" his father says, standing his ground.
"Who did you talk to?" the little boy asks again.
"Who wants to know?" his father responds, feeling the pressure.
"Was it my mommy?" the little boy ventures.
He asks this with his back partly turned. His question says that he still dares to hope. But as he asks it, he's turning away. As he does, I see his face and it has the heartsick look that I've worn myself in recent days. We both know the answer won't be the one that he needs to hear...
LPK
LiveJournal
9.26.6 (a)
Since then, we've battled in court to regain a share of custody, watched a succession of girls linger briefly in our son's life and finally, in the past two weeks, experienced the predictable, the inevitable, the unbelievably painful loss of this child who's now gone to live in the home of his father's latest girlfriend.
Perhaps, my wife suggests, it would've been easier if done gradually. A series of sleepovers, maybe, to get everyone used to the idea. I look away as she says this. She's not the one who's put him to bed every night, been there to comfort him when he was restless or sick or cried in his sleep. She's not the one who's been up every morning to dress him and feed him, to provide the happiest possible start for him, each and every day.
Still, there have been those mornings when I've found myself thinking, "She seems nice enough... her little girl seems happy and well brought up... if I had to choose from all the ones we've seen our son with..."
As I step out on the porch, the phone call is ending.
"OK, love you, see you later," Jason says.
"What did you say?" the little boy asks.
"I said goodbye," his father says, and sends an exasperated look my way.
"No, you said, 'I love you,'" the little boy insists.
"So?" his father says, standing his ground.
"Who did you talk to?" the little boy asks again.
"Who wants to know?" his father responds, feeling the pressure.
"Was it my mommy?" the little boy ventures.
He asks this with his back partly turned. His question says that he still dares to hope. But as he asks it, he's turning away. As he does, I see his face and it has the heartsick look that I've worn myself in recent days. We both know the answer won't be the one that he needs to hear...
LPK
LiveJournal
9.26.6 (a)
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