“They’re of an age they can decide where they want to spend their time,” I informed him of something he knew, since he’d forced them to make that decision in a legal way. “But more, it would seem from their demeanor that they enjoy that freedom. I think, as their parents, having put them in a position where they have to divide their time between us, giving them the ability to do that as they wish is something we should allow.”
“The way things are, Amelia, Martine doesn’t know if they’re going to be home for dinner. If she’ll need to pack lunches for them. This affects grocery shopping—”
I interrupted him, “I face the same thing. However, I do find it’s easy to cope with making last minute adjustments. And they aren’t six and eight, Conrad. They can pack their own lunches, something they do at my house.”
“Martine likes to be certain they eat healthy,” he returned. “You would find it easy as they’re your children so you’d make those adjustments as a matter of course. We can’t forget that they aren’t Martine’s children, their home is her home, and the mingling of that has to be managed. This is not managed well.”
The mingling of that has to be managed?
This entire thing was making me uneasy.
“Conrad, I don’t need to remind you that your wife chose to pledge her troth to a man with children. Thus she had a readymade family, which I’m sorry if you disagree, but it’s my feeling she would need to adjust to fit within that family, make our children comfortable in the home she shares with them, not her home, all of your home, and do what’s best for them. If this means she has to endure the horror of cold cuts going bad because someone isn’t eating them, I’m sure she’ll eventually find it in her to survive.”
“There’s no need to get ugly,” he clipped.
“You’re taking my time to share the fact that your wife is annoyed she can’t predict what groceries she needs to buy for the week, Conrad. I’m busy. I have a life. I don’t have time for these trivialities. Honestly?”
“Our children aren’t trivialities, Amelia,” he snapped.
“We aren’t discussing our children,” I shot back. “We’re discussing your wife. And to me, she is. Now, unless there’s some real reason that this situation with the children cannot continue as it stands that you wish to discuss, the discussion is over. Things remain as they are and Martine has to find it in her to deal.”
“Fuck, why did I think you’d give that first shit about managing an issue with our kids?”
“Because this isn’t an issue with our kids,” I whispered my reply. “You have an issue at home with your wife.” That was a guess but with this ridiculous conversation, with the way I now knew my children were escaping that house and with what I knew of my ex-husband, it was a guess I suspected was correct. “You’re making this my issue because you can’t sort it yourself. I do not factor in your life, Conrad. I do not want to factor in your life. I will not be dragged into issues you have in your home with your wife. So do not ever call me when things are not going well for you unless that genuinely involves our children.”
“I’m assuming this is your way of telling me that even though you’ve at long last settled down and pulled yourself together, you don’t wish to participate in a team effort in the raising of our children.”
How could he take that from what I said?
“Am I speaking English?” I asked.
“Go fuck yourself, Amelia,” he retorted and hung up on me.
God, what a dick.
I stared at my phone now knowing things were not good with Conrad and Martine.
I didn’t give a crap about that.
I was worried about my kids.
Shit.
*
Later that morning, I pushed open the door to Dove House and my eyes went right to the reception area where I saw Ruth sitting.
“Hey,” I greeted.
I was surprised she was there. Ruth was still volunteering but sporadically, mostly because my three days a week, three hours a day had morphed into four days a week, four to five hours a day, and since I was there so often Dela didn’t really need another volunteer who may or may not be in it for the long haul (the last part was what she really didn’t need).
We always needed help, though, so Ruth filled in here and there, but it was no longer regular.
“Hey, Amelia,” she replied.
“Good to see you,” I said, shrugging off my jacket.
“You too,” she returned. “But, um…Dela wants to see you too. In her office.”
I focused more closely on her and saw her usual pretty, benevolent features were shadowed with something.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Dela wants to speak with you, hon,” she repeated.
I stared at her, nodded and went to the door that led to the administration wing. I didn’t have to punch in the code because Ruth buzzed me in.
I walked down the short hall to Dela’s office, jacket over my arm, purse over my shoulder, and stopped in her opened office door. I knocked on the jamb, and when her head came up and she looked at me, I said, “Hey, Dela. Ruth wanted me to check in with you?”
“Yes, Amelia, come in, would you? Have a seat.”