I talked to a detective today. She believed my story, but I don’t think she can do anything about it.
I waited until my kids were 18 before talking to the police. I knew there would be consequences, and I wanted them to be at least some version of safe. I’m not sure it’s going to work. My son’s dad has already started arguing with him.
I waited too long. I was scared, and I waited too long.
I did everything I was told would keep us safe. I stayed home with the kids, went back to school, became a special education teacher. I worked in city schools. I took my meds and went to therapy. I made sure everyone ate, went to the doctor, and got where they needed to go.
I wasn’t perfect, but I believed if you did everything right, things would turn out okay. They didn’t. I’ve been holding on with all my fingernails, and now I have to let go.
I keep thinking I shouldn’t have to leave.
Now I’m back at the house where I’m dogsitting, watching the pug’s favorite movie, A Dog’s Purpose. It’s terrible. I can’t stop crying. Not movie-crying — tears streaming for no clear reason. I just talked to a detective. I just told my son the truth.
Maybe that’s reason enough.
I fly to Toronto Monday morning, spend a week with three fantastic dogs on a ridiculous downtown balcony, and then I’m on another continent. I have no reason to come back. I feel emptied out.
I don’t know if anyone knows how much I’ve been holding on. And now I’m crying at a manipulative dog movie with cake in the kitchen, at what’s either the bleeding edge of my past or the leading edge of my future.
Thank god for cake.
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