Of all the things I’d accounted for, I never gave serious thought to whether my kids liked me, or preferred me, or worse: preferred him. I took their affection, their attention, their love and time for granted. But now I had to consider whether they wanted to be here in this house with me, or if they’d rather be “home.” It became a competition.
Home was a concept I failed to think about. As anxious as I was to get out of that house, to them, it was their home base. The smells, the feeling, even the clutter was part of the landscape of their childhood. It developed them. It was a part of them. And now I wasn’t a part of that anymore.
With sensitive girl in deep retreat, I was free to wallow in self-pity. Is there anything more pathetic than a woman who gets exactly what she wants?