“Why Mummy and Daddy can’t be friends any more” and other exciting conversations.
“Why can’t Mummy and Daddy be friends any more?” my boy asks, out of the blue, the words flying straight from his quiver into my heart. He runs his current favourite — Thomas the train — over the smooth, brown dinner table, kneeling on his chair, his elbows tucked in, his hazel eyes — his father’s eyes — holding me in a vice-like grip.
I stop mid-chop, half an onion rolling away in shock.
“We fight too much,” I say, wishing I had more time to prepare for his questions. I look at my cell phone and wonder if I can speed dial my therapist.
“You said it’s not nice to fight,” he says, eyes narrowing, little boy lips pouting, Thomas running in a straight line now.
I hate it when he’s right.
“I did,” I say. Grown-ups are allowed to, I want to say.
But that doesn’t sound right.
Eyebrows up, eyes ablaze with righteous hurt, he waits for more. I wish I could tell him what he wants to hear.
“You should be friends with Daddy again. Teacher said,” he says calmly, Thomas chugging in slow circles on the bare table.
The snake. Just because I told her I would be late getting back from court. Just because I told her I don’t have their legal custody yet.
I take a deep breath. Time to keep the chopping knife aside.
I kneel beside him, my hand on the table, so that he can look straight into my eyes. Thomas comes to a halt on my thumb. I want to apologise but I’m almost certain I have done nothing wrong.
“Tell your teacher that won’t be possible. From now on, Mummy lives in Mummy’s house and Daddy lives in Daddy’s house. You are so lucky, my darling, because you have two homes of your own now, okay?” I say, waiting with bated breath for the wail, the crash, the inevitable “I want Daddy here” whine.
He nods.
“And you’ll get Percy for my birthday? He’s Thomas’ best friend! You promised, okay?”
He slides off the chair, Thomas carefully cradled in his hand, searching for the railway track on which his train can chug away.
Choo-choo.
