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“I can’t believe you’re doing this! And right now, too! Right when we’ve got all the stuff going on with Connor. Damn you Amber, you can’t even wait for things to calm down, can you?” His face is red, veins bulging from his neck.
In response to his father’s outburst, Connor begins singing at the top of his lungs.
I’m in the middle of a fucking madhouse. I want to cover my ears and run away. Damn them both.
“What about my business?” Mark yells. “Are you going to take half of that?”
“No. Of course not! I wouldn’t touch your business and am hoping, in return, you won’t touch my retirement account.”
His jaw drops. “I cannot believe this.”
Connor has found a crayon and is now coloring on the walls as he sings.
Mark begins fanatically shaking his head. “I can’t do this. I can’t only see Connor every other week. You can’t do this to me—I can’t …”
Tears swim in his eyes despite the rage contorting his face. I cannot believe I’m witnessing this. Mark has taken exactly zero interest in Connor’s life, and all of a sudden, he can’t imagine being without him for a few days?
“What about the house?” he croaks. “What about all our debt? What about?—"
“The lawyers handle all that kind of stuff.”
“And who’s going to pay them?”
All practical questions, none that I have answers for.
He studies me closely for an excruciating minute. “Is your life really that bad, Amber? Is our life really so bad that you are willing to rip this family apart? Make Connor go between houses every other week, every holiday? Make him become a child of divorce?”
My stomach rolls. I’d figured all this out in my head, told myself that I—we—could do it, yet the moment I am met with adversity my resolve completely evaporates. I doubt everything—every word I’ve said. Because, truly, my life really isn’t that bad. It’s just loveless.
Mark rights the chair he knocked over, sinks down, and drops his head in his hands.
“I’ll do therapy, with you,” he whispers on a shaky breath. “I’ll try harder, do better. I’ll get a new job. I’ll close my business and work for someone else, just like you did. Hell, I’ll get two jobs. Maybe I could do that—get a night job. Just… Please—please just don’t tear this family apart.”
This is where ninety-nine percent of the “divorce conversations” fail. The emotions take over and suddenly everything seems too hard, too painful, too difficult to navigate. And instead of standing our ground, we cave.
This is where I am supposed to be firm, as I tell my clients. Here, I am supposed to say: No therapy, Mark. I want a divorce. My decision is final.
But I don’t.
Instead, I watch Connor crawl to my husband, wrap his arms around Mark’s legs, and rest his little head on his thigh.
“Don’t cry, Daddy,” he says, “don’t cry.”
Connor looks back at me, his chin quivering.
Tears fill my eyes.
How the hell can I do this? How can anyone do this?
How can anyone put their family through this?
FORTY
ROWAN
After pouring a glass of whiskey to ease the pain between my legs, and the disgust in my heart, I head down to the basement, clicking on the floor lamp at the base of the stairs.
Banjo follows seconds later, excited at this midnight activity.
