Meeting with his therapist
We met with the boy’s therapist this evening. The boy really likes her, and I think she has his best interests at heart.
We decided we would tell him on Saturday after lunch. Give him time to ask questions. Let it sink in. The important thing, his therapist said, was to be prepared for almost any reaction. Reassure him that Mom and Dad love him and will always take care of him. That some things won’t change: he’ll still live in his house and go to his school. Some things will change: he’ll have a room at Dad’s house and always be welcome there.
Afterward we sat in Beth’s car. She was crying. It’s an odd situation because when she’s upset, it’s me she comes to. When I have something to share, it’s her I go to. But now that avenue is blocked. It was hard to be comforting and the object of scorn at the same time.
She blames my mother, of course, for screwing me up. And our therapist for not making it work. Her family for screwing her up. Me for not coming to terms with whatever I’m not coming to terms with. It’s no use rehashing it, I told her. We’re not going to fix it. We tried — and here she cut me off: “Oh spare me the litany again!”
I told her: After seeing what my parents did to us, I vowed I would not get divorced. I would do whatever it took to avoid it. But I failed. In the end I can’t be married to you like this. I just can’t.
I have a feeling that, as much as we’ve talked about how to tell him, Beth is going to make me be the one to do most of the talking, and that there’s a good chance I’ll be the bad guy in the boy’s eyes.