He went for toiletries next and then grabbed the garment bag for some of his nicer shirts and suits. “I’m running out of room. Now what?”
This time I did get up, taking my alarm implements with me because I didn’t trust him any further than I could throw him. I returned with a box full of garbage bags. “You can take yourself and your things out properly now.”
“Such a bitch,” he muttered under his breath.
The nausea surged again, but I held it down by sheer willpower. No way would I give him the satisfaction. After what felt like an eternity but must’ve only been fifteen minutes, he took all his stuff out to his car. I sat on the bed, listening for the garage door to go up, for his car to start, and then for the garage door to come back down.
Only then did I go and purge myself of the contents of my stomach.
I sat at the breakfast room table, idly drumming my fingertips on the table. I’d managed to get my headache and queasy stomach back to normal thanks to a combination of coffee, fried potatoes, water, and ibuprofen.
Only one question remained: What to do now that Mitch had left?
I wanted to talk to Dylan, but also the last thing I wanted to do was talk to Dylan. What could I possibly say to him that would make anything better? To make matters worse, I’d come across some disturbing facts while googling things to say to your children about divorce. Apparently, lots of parents would wait for their children to go to college and then get a divorce. The last thing I wanted to do was make things difficult for my son, who was trying to learn how to be independent.
There you go again, Vivian, taking full responsibility for something that isn’t your fault.
Well, no, it wasn’t my fault, but Mitch had obviously checked out of our marriage. He certainly wasn’t going to help me. He hadn’t taken Dylan’s feelings into consideration any more than he’d taken mine.
Rage flashed through me.
Or was that a hot flash?
Hard to tell the difference these days. Lord knew my usual hot flashes were bad enough. The last thing I needed was to add rage hot flashes to my hormonal repertoire.
I should’ve just smothered him. A jury of my peers wouldnothave convicted me.
“Mom?”
Dylan’s voice was accompanied by the whine of the front door—note to self: get WD-40—and I stood to greet him.
“Hey, Buddy Bear,” I said, surprised by the sadness and fatigue in my voice.
“Where’s Dad?” Dylan asked the question in a tone that didn’t reveal which answer he wanted to hear.
“He’s gone,” I said.
He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders sagged in relief. The gesture was so Mitch that I had a flashback to earlier that morning when my husband had shown his relief in just such a way. Love and hate mixed up together and created a knot of indigestion in my still-sensitive stomach. For the rest of my life I would be reminded of Mitch every time I looked at Dylan. Only now, instead of bringing comfort and contentment and pride, I would be reminded of Mitch’s betrayal.
Dylan plopped down at the table, and I sat back down, too.
“So,” he said.
“So,” I echoed.
“Can we go ahead and have this conversation and get it over with?”
“What conversation would that be?” I asked.
“You know, the one where you tell me that both you and my father will always love me, yada yada yada.”
“Well, we will.”
“What about my college?”
“We have your college savings plan for that,” I said.
Dylan relaxed, but I frowned. I didn’t remember anything from Mitch’s stupid worksheets about an extra college allowance. I had seen a paltry sum for alimony, an insulting sum, if I were being honest. And Mitch had made no allowances for child support, because Dylan was eighteen.
