Chapter 1: Sadie
On the morning my life began to unravel like the hem of my
worn-out sweater, I found an old love letter from my almost ex-husband in the
bottom drawer of my home office desk. The paper, at least fifteen years old,
felt thin to my fingertips, like the lace on the bodice of my wedding dress.
Inside the folds of the sheet, Theo had printed a few lines of text in his
block scrawl—some words he’d written on his own, some he’d borrowed from our
favorite poet, Rumi. You have disturbed
my sleep, the text read. You have
wrecked my image. You have set me apart.
Times had changed.
Without you, I can’t
cope.
And yet, they hadn’t.
The letter’s edges scraped my fingertips one last time before
I placed the paper into a file folder near my computer. The summer humidity
made the drawer stick, and I pushed it closed, upsetting the small pile of
bills balanced on the desk. Water sloshed from the tall glass near the
computer—Theo had probably left it out all night—reminding me dishes still
needed to be washed and put away. Moving toward the door, I kicked a toy car
with a missing wheel. The vehicle crashed against the wall and came to rest
near a singing-alphabet snail that had been waiting for new batteries for two
weeks. From sweet love letters to dirty
glasses and broken toys.
Insane giggles from the next room interrupted my progress,
and the scene unfolded before me: Theo on hands and knees, three rambunctious
children scattered across his back. Make that hand and knees—he possessed enough strength to balance on one hand.
His arm muscles rippled against his favorite blue T-shirt as he tickled the
children’s bellies. One tumbled off Theo and onto the carpet, while the second
attempted to pull his shirt. The youngest, a pile of curls and drool, peered up
at her father, joy radiating from her eyes as her pudgy fingers gripped his
waistband. She clenched her teeth and yanked with a linebacker’s strength such
that in one fell swoop, a portion of Theo’s shorts sprang away from his body.
The kids rocked onto their heels, clapping their hands and howling, pointing at
their father’s underwear. In return, Theo growled, his voice echoing across the
great room rafters. The guttural noise sent the children to scatter from one
toy-filled corner to the other and then back to him again.
I pinched my lips, stifling the laughter, before my gaze met
Theo’s. It had been a long time since I’d witnessed such life in his eyes and
in his actions. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time he’d played with the
kids so effortlessly. On many days, an ordinary day’s struggles wore him out
long before he had a chance to interact with the children. Wiping away a tear
from my cheek, I smiled—breathing in the happy moment, reveling in the charming
family image, hoping to hold onto the contentment enveloping me as I went about
the rest of my full day.
“I’ve got this.” Theo craned his neck to look at me as the
children began another round of assaults on his back. “You’re overworked and
underpaid. Go do what you need to do.”
“But it’s Father’s Day. I can’t do that to you.”
“Do what? Leave me with my children? I’m right where I want
to be.” Theo—in one swift move—flipped his body over, grabbed the children, and
clutched them to his chest. The move surprised me and gave me hope that Theo
still existed. He did have this.
A mental check of my to-do list: most of the day consisted of
tasks to be accomplished at home—laundry, decluttering the mud room, sorting
old toys for the Vietnam Vets pickup scheduled for the next week—except for
grocery shopping. “Okay, but at least let me take Lexie to the store. She loves
to see her grocery store friends. Plus, Charlie and Delia have been complaining
about their lack of Daddy time.”
A year ago, when Lexie turned six months old and Theo had
been struggling with PTSD for eleven months, we called it quits. Somewhat. Theo
and I as a unit didn’t work, mainly due to his diagnosis. He’d turned inward,
and nothing I had tried brought him back. At that time, we stopped sharing our
day, stopped touching one another, and eventually, stopped sleeping together.
Theo refused to see a therapist with me on a routine basis, claiming we’d be
“better off with different expectations of our future together.”
After much thought and debate, and because we still both
respected one another, we decided to be frank and tell the kids of our
separation. The PTSD made sure Theo needed our help, so he still lived in an
addition at the back of the house. But with the older kids at all-day summer
camps and school the rest of the year, Charlie’s and Delia’s time spent with
Dad was at a premium.
He didn’t hesitate. “All right. Take Lexie and go get the
grub. It’s Father’s Day, and I’m not doing
the cooking!” He convulsed with laughter as the kids’ fingers found their way
into his armpits.
“Ha! Like you ever do.” I winked at him.
Not wanting to waste a moment, I pried Lexie from Theo’s legs
and nuzzled her belly with my nose, drunk on the scent of my eighteen-month-old
daughter. She giggled and squirmed and, like an inch worm, wriggled to the
floor, then caught my hand in hers. With a quick swipe of the car keys and
diaper bag and a check that a snack was accessible in the refrigerator, we
wound our way through the back hallway to the garage.
“Do we know what we’re getting?” I asked Lexie, who held the
paper between her thumb and forefinger. She lifted the list in the air and
waved it like a flag before crumpling it in her tight, gooey grip. When I pried
the list from her hands, her grin stretched as wide as her face.
Once I’d buckled Lexie into her
car seat, I grabbed my favorite cotton sweater from the seat beside her. “Okay,
sweetie, to the store we go!” I tugged my sweater onto my arms and adjusted the
buttons across my chest. It wasn’t until later, as I hung the sweater on the
drying rack in the laundry room, I noticed the loose thread at the bottom hem.
