Rejection And Cowardice

Rejection.

Soooooooooooo…….about Mr. Anderson.  This past weekend I gave in to my father’s pleas to see the boys and decided that a whole weekend alone with Mr. Anderson and the internet (YAY!!!) was just what I needed.  I had visions of editing Walking The Mile (the sequel to Kidowed), getting the paperwork written up that I need for court for Lilly and the boys—a petition to modify custody for Lilly, and a statement signed by my parents that they relinquish full physical and legal custody of the boys to me—and catching up on my blogging.  And of course catching up with Mr. Anderson too—the first week home with the boys was kind of rough on all of us with all the transitioning being done.  The boys were overly clingy with me, and bedtime had become a nightmare.

Apparently, this bothered Mr. Anderson more than just a little, because the first night without the kids turned into a debate about whether or not Henry saw himself as an extension of me, and not a whole person, and the debate turned into an argument, and before I knew fully what was happening, the argument turned into a screaming match that ended with me leaving, confused and hurt, feeling abused.

Days passed, and nothing from Mr. Anderson.  I find that this is the most hurtful way to fight—the ones who simply ignore, refuse to participate, as if they don’t care for you at all, you aren’t worth their time or thought, you are worth nothing.  This is how my mother fights—she simply refuses to care.

The boys returned home, and the first thing out of their mouths was, “Where’s Matt?”  I, fighting back tears, told them I didn’t know.  I went to the dinner we had planned with one of my friends with Melvin instead of Mr. Anderson, and my therapy appointment that Mr. Anderson was supposed to take me to was missed.  Again.  I called—no response.  I went to his house—he refused to even answer the door.  This morning a knock on my door.  I came downstairs and was nastily surprised to be greeted with nothing but two Dollar General plastic bags with my clothes and hairspray in them.

He couldn’t even be bothered to face me.

The boys happily shrieked, “Matt’s here!!!!” and clamored down the stairs to be disappointed that no, he wasn’t.   No Good Bye, no conversation at all.  He had made his decision with a brutal, abrupt finality that didn’t just sting but rather took my breath away.

So I guess that’s The End of that story

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