That’s what they don’t tell you. That you would leap out of your chair or pull your car over if your phone chimed, in case it was a text from him. That you would lie on his bed when he was out and smell his pillow that last summer before he left. That the sound of his voice actually brought tears to your eyes and an ache to your heart, and his casual “love you, too” was water in the desert.
It’s the wretched contradiction of parenting. Once, you were their favorite human on the planet, and they were yours. For the rest of your life, your child will remain your heart . . . but it’s not mutual. It’s not supposed to be. Your importance is dwarfed by their friends. Romantic interests. Cool professors and great coaches. A spouse, someday, and kids of their own, and you . . . you got left behind at a certain exit on the highway of their life, and all you can do is look down the road after them and remember when you were so needed, so loved, so sure of your place in the world, because you were Mommy, and that was everything.
And for me, the person who was supposed to understand and share all of that, to comfort and reassure me . . . he was screwing a thirty-year-old who loved yoga and drove a car that cost more than I made in a year.
Living with a man who’s cheating on you takes a toll. Trying to be pleasant for the sake of your child, and lying to that child—ditto. Feeling your heart crumble in your chest because your husband took away your future and forced you to live as a bleeding, silent witness to the last summer your family would be intact . . . it was nothing short of agony.
Which I endured for Dylan.
At work, it was fine—I was Lillie the Midwife, the nurse with the gentle hands, warming the ultrasound gel before squeezing it onto the lovely round tummies, handing tissues out for happy weepers, reassuring and full of wisdom for women of all ages.
But the second I left the office or hospital, my mind was buzzing with thought spirals. Even the past wasn’t what I had thought, was it? I would now have to rethink, reframe, remember our past in an entirely different way. Brad wasn’t just ruining the present and destroying my future—he was taking a sledgehammer to the twenty years we were together. After all, he’d proven himself more than capable of lying and hiding things. Was Melissa his first affair? All those times in the past nineteen years when we’d seemed happy and content . . . was he seeing someone else? That surprisingly horrible fight we had over how to load the dishwasher . . . was that a sign that he’d stopped loving me? How long had he been planning to leave me?
Every nice thing I’d done for him, I now resented. I had always been amused by his hypochondria but loved taking care of him—obviously, it’s my career—covering him with soft blankets when he had a man-cold (or walking pneumonia, as he self-diagnosed). The breakfasts I’d made him every single weekday until this past spring, when he started with the green smoothies made of what was essentially compost and oat milk. Another sign he’d been cheating. Smoothies. Who wants to drink cucumber and kale for breakfast?
Like every married person, I’d put up with his unfixables . . . he could not for the life of him manage to see the smears of feces he left in the toilet, and nearly every day, I’d go into our bathroom, sigh, and spray Clorox Clean-Up into the bowl and scrub. Before, it was just an irritant. Now, it seemed condescending and mean-spirited—he’d literally expected me to clean up his shit. His habit of leaving a dirty bowl on the counter above the dishwasher, just six inches from actually putting it away. The way he wouldn’t scrape my car off in the winter, though I would always scrape off his. How he interrupted me constantly, then apologized for interrupting but continued speaking anyway, me always tolerating his unspoken belief that he thought he was smarter than I was.
I had bought every card and gift for our son and his parents, signing them from both of us. I was the one who knew the birthdays and anniversaries. We had a great relationship with Vanessa and Charles because of me, not him. I was the one who stayed in close touch, giving them updates on Dylan, inviting them to every significant event in his life from his baptism to football games. I helped at the family business; Brad did not. If his mother called his cell, their conversation would last ten minutes. If she called me, we’d talk for an hour. Back in the olden days, that was.
I hated him, and I hated myself for having loved him. He was so pretentious, so smug, so cruel in his new namaste philosophy . . . and yet, I fantasized about him begging me for forgiveness, for another chance, he’d spend the rest of his life proving that he’d made a terrible mistake. I wanted to stay married. I hated my husband, but I wanted my family intact.
Dylan and I drove to Hyannis together to get all the things he’d need for his dorm room, and I held it together as he picked out his new comforter, extra-long sheets, towels, bathrobe, shower caddy. On the way home, he said, “I’ll really miss you, Mom,” and it was all I could do not to sob. Instead, I covered his hand with mine and said, “I’ll miss you, too, honey. But this will be so much fun for you. It’s a great adventure, going so far away, and I’m really proud that you’re brave enough to do it. And of course, I’ll visit.”
Mothers lie. All I really wanted was for him to have a serious change of heart, take my father up on his offer to teach him how to be a scallop fisherman, buy the Goody Chapman back from Ben Hallowell and make it a Silva family boat once again. Or just crew for Ben. Or decide he wanted to be a nurse at Hyannis Hospital and marry Lydia, and in a few years, I’d sell them our house at a crazy low price, move into the studio and give them their privacy and work part-time when they had kids and needed me there to help. Lydia, who already loved me, would say how perfect it was to have me so close.
But he and Lydia broke up. Dylan said it was mutual, that it didn’t make sense to have a long-distance relationship with someone he wouldn’t see until Christmas.
Two weeks before our son left for college, Brad and I had our first appointment with a mediator. She was a calm, middle-aged woman with short gray hair, and she exuded intelligence. She waited for us to settle in (on opposite sides of the table, fittingly).
“I’m Elaine,” she said, opening a notebook. “The first thing I ask my clients is, are you absolutely sure there’s no chance of reconciliation?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said.
Brad put on his therapist sympathy face. “I’m sorry, Lillie. Too much damage has been done. It’s been a dead marriage for years.”
The urge to spit acid, like a velociraptor, was strong. “I have written proof that this is not true, Brad. But whatever. Have your midlife crisis with your Barbie doll.”
“There it is. Your temper, for one. Your lack of true interest in my personal growth. You don’t notice me anymore. I can’t remember the last time you really saw me. You certainly don’t care about my health, cooking with all that butter.”
“So this is grounds for divorce? Too much butter?”
“You think you’re a saint. So earth mother, delivering babies, caring for pregnant women. Admit it. You hate men.”
“I do not hate men!” I screeched. “I only hate you.”
“Okay,” Elaine intervened. “I’m not a therapist, but I’d say he’s firm in his decision to become divorced, Lillie. It only takes one partner to make that happen. So let’s do what you originally said you wanted to—talk about dividing your assets.”
“Do I get more since he lied and cheated and broke his vows?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Interesting,” he said. “You also broke yours. What about to love, honor and cherish?”
“I did that! When haven’t I done that?”
“See, you’re not even listening, even now. I just told you.”
“So I should’ve kissed your ass more? Told you how brilliant you are, how strong and handsome and funny?”
“Yes,” he said, almost sounding surprised. “Of course!”
“And when did you do that for me?”