Yesterday I tried to call my son’s father, to tell him we were moving. Of course, he didn’t answer. I left a voice mail, and said, “Hi…It’s Deb. I’m calling you because B and I won’t be able to go to the wedding this weekend. Bruce is moving to Denver, and I’m moving to Florida and it’s all happening in the next 3 weeks. If you want to talk to me about it, give me a call.”

Didn’t hear back from him. Until today. He tried to reach my son at work. And me, at work. Of course. Not gonna call me when he knows I’m home.

Whatever, it’s his way.

So, I called him back on my way home. I didn’t want to talk to him once I got home, I wanted to be home and done with it. Because he’s work. He’s just so much work.

He seems to have a genuine interest in our son, which is a good thing. But honestly, I know him way better than I want to. I know everything he says is a manipulation, of someone, or something. Because after I made sure he knew the things that most parents would want to know, that he has people there, that he has a place rented, that he has a job waiting for him, that he’ll be fine, I had to listen to him tell me all about the heart attack he had. I knew he had afib, not a heart attack, I knew it was 18 months ago, and he has never mentioned a word about it to me. Going on about how he has had a long slow recovery, how he only has 65% of his heart capacity, how he couldn’t walk up to the mailbox to get his mail. How his dr told him he’s lucky he made it through the divorce alive. OMG, on and on. How much of it was true? Maybe 5%.

He’s telling me now, to draw sympathy, so I’ll tell my son, so my son will be worried about him. He weaves a story around a teeny bit of truth. No matter to him that the whole rest of the story is a lie.

But I didn’t question him. I didn’t quiz him. I know better. I just listened, and accepted one small part of it, I know he had a heart issue. I also know he checked himself out of the hospital. I do know he lost a bunch of weight, because I saw him outside his business when I drove by about a year or so ago.

Then I had to listen to how our son won’t talk to him, how he hasn’t talked to him in about 5 years. How he didn’t have much time with him, only 6 or 7 years. I balked at that. I said, “You had 16 years with him.” Because my son walked away from him at 16. He went on, “Well, not really. I didn’t spend that much time with him until he was playing baseball.”

OMG, this man can rewrite history. Like he should write a novel, geezus. He forced me to go back to work at 3 months and stop nursing him, so he could spend equal time with him. The kid played hockey from the time he was 5, and except for the first year (because God forbid he should have to get his son to Learn to Play at 6 AM) he was at EVERY fucking minute of hockey, and practice. He played baseball from age 6. WTF. His father never missed a game, and in fact coached a lot of his teams.

You have no idea how badly I wanted to hang up. Call him a fuckin’ asshole. But he’s too pathetic.

It’s just that he leaves out completely, the fact that he called this kid every nasty, ugly name you can imagine, his whole life. He would ask him, after a game, “What’s the matter? You need your mommy’s tit to suck on?” At 8 years old. He would ridicule him, make up stories about the way he played, complete lies, never compliment him, berate and belittle him every chance he had. He leaves out the part where he forced our son to mediate our arguments, adult arguments over adult issues. Put an 8 year old in charge of making a decision. Think the kid knew who not to piss off? Think the kid knew who would love him no matter what he decided? He just leaves out the HOURS spent in the car where he debased, and derided the kid. Hours. The days where my son didn’t play hockey well enough to deserve to stop for a meal, after playing a game it took us 2 hours to get to and 2 hours to get home from.

(And my son was a GOOD hockey player, he almost always played up a year, and on teams that were at times nationally ranked.)

He left out the times he smacked my kid around, unknown to me. Swore my kid to secrecy because he KNEW I’d call the cops if I found out.

So, when I say work, it’s fucking WORK to listen to him and his stories, as if I wasn’t there. As if I don’t know the whole story. As if his rewriting history removes the scars on my son’s psyche. As if I don’t know the whole truth, nothing but the truth and his re-composing is going to change the abuse that’s burned into me.

I used to try to explain to him that he needs to own his actions, he needs to go out on a limb for his son. It was always an argument. It was always an attack on me for showing him who he was in the mirror. It has always been him denying what he did to my son, refusing to be accountable. So until he does, until he can call my son and leave a voice mail acknowledging the fact that he stole my son’s happy childhood from him, my son will probably not want to talk to him.

Even though I have told my son, “Your father is such a pathetic man, B, you gotta just feel sorry for him. He’s paying the price for his actions.” But that’s, of course, my perspective. Me, the Aries who can’t hold a grudge. My son is a Taurus, they can hold one forever.

What his father did to him, he also did to me. I have just understood since, it is a defect in him, not me. I told my son, “we have wonderful lives, you and I. We have created our own wonderful lives.” I wish he could forgive. But then, maybe he has. Maybe he just hasn’t forgotten.

Whatever. I have told my ex as much as I can without compromising my relationship with my son. I gave him the head’s up so he won’t go to the wedding and get blindsided, which is an action that grew out of the unconditional love I try to extend, where ever I can. Even to him, who tried to steal my soul. He didn’t, he couldn’t. I escaped, and managed to create a wonderful life. He doesn’t hurt me anymore. He can’t. I don’t give him that power.

I just let him rant, and weave a story, and convince himself that it wasn’t really his fault. And then I hang up the phone and sigh. And want to cry, wondering how the hell he ever got so far off the track.

I am kind of hopeful that it’s the last time I will have to talk to him.

Work, it was just exhausting. I am home, with a glass of wine, frozen chicken parm pizza. I am ok. I got one hard chore out of the way.

Love and light, everyone.