The Road Goes on Forever…and the Pain Just Never Ends

In my last entry, I admitted to giving up Hope. Letting go of the hope that my son would, quite literally, have a change of heart was a sort of New Year’s resolution. After 18 months of clinging to Hope, it had become a poison that was killing me slowly.

But much like dark chocolate, giving up Hope has proven difficult to do. This evening marked another entry in the “Jesus, My Son Really Hates Me” journal that my heart enjoys keeping.

My daughter — who shares time equally between my home and her dad’s (where her brother, my son, lives full time) — forgot several things at my house and I committed to dropping them off on my way to work. As I pulled into the neighborhood, I messaged her that I would be there in three minutes…forgetting that her phone was one of the items she’d forgotten and I was in possession of. After pulling up to the house and remembering that she wouldn’t get the message, I messaged her father, my ex spouse, “I’m out front.”

I waited, scanning the windows for movement and wanting the porch light to flip on. It didn’t. Our family dogs travel with their girl — the easiest way we found to share custody of the dogs was to agree they go with our daughter. So I unloaded the dogs from my car and walked them hesitantly to the front door. I was going to have to knock.

I was hoping (there’s that word again) that my daughter would answer, knowing that — given the time — of course it would be me arriving with her things. She did not. The door swung open and my son stood on the other side.

As with the previous time this happened, I watched the shadow quickly fall over his face and his features descend into disdain and hatred. And, as before, he didn’t utter a single word, not even a flat “Hey.” He simply cracked open the screen door to allow the dogs inside.

Unlike the previous experience, I didn’t speak either. I didn’t even attempt. I simply stared back at him. I am angry, too, you see. Angry. And hurt. And confused. And desperate for the pain to end. Every time I see him, I am forced to face the reality that he will not “come around” (as I’ve heard a hundred thousand times from well meaning friends and family in the last year).

There are some very real ways that I am moving on with my life, one year after divorcing their father. And I take to heart the therapy I’ve worked through and the words from mothers like me to embrace the light, and move forward focusing on the child who is still in my life.

But every day that my son remains estranged is one more day the hatred for my ex grows. Though it was my adult son who made his own decision to detach from me — it was his father who spoon fed him the feelings. For this, I will never forgive. And perhaps that means I will forever bear the pain as well — unable to free myself with the power they say comes with forgiveness. For now, I’m ok with that.

My daughter finally came to the door to collect her things. She cautiously stepped outside to give me a hug and tell me that her school Valentine’s party was “good.” And then she, too, felt the pressure emanating from within the residence and quickly said her feet were cold and she needed to go back inside.

I drove to work (which is currently the graveyard shift as a 911 dispatcher), ruminating over the brief encounter with my son. After arriving I texted the new man in my life with a brief summary of the incident. His reply back included “Sad, really.” Yes, yes it is. But right now, I can’t decide which of us it’s the most sad for…me, or my son.