Me: I am still deployed. What's wrong with Mommy?
Me (again): I really wish you hadn't put it as you did; my stomach is turning in circles now, worried about Mommy. Please write as soon as possible.
S: There's nothing wrong with my mom. I wanted to know what you had told her about why we weren't together anymore. I just finished moving in with her, to make it short life sucks for me and I'm sure its something you said to her so I want to know what I am dealing with. Either that note you left for her at the house before you left or emails or some crap. Whatever it was you should at least tell me what it was, and no I won't ask her.
Me: I have no idea. Frankly, this is not my problem. You, S, you digged this hole. You told me that you, yourself saw the note, or had heard from Mommy what it said. In any case, I'll repeat it here, because I remember: "When I bought it (the carpet), I had imagined S and I coming over and sharing tea and us both giving it to you, as a family. But I had no idea that when I came home I'd discover that she'd have found someone else with whom she wanted to be, more than me. So, it's just from me."
How dare you tell me that your life sucks.
And, S, there have been no emails, ("or some crap") really. She wrote me once, and it was completely empty -- only a subject line: "thank you." I imagine it was in response to a letter I sent her, but I'm not sure. I sent her ONE goddamned letter, probably a month ago, S. It was very topical. You are not entitled to it, but here's the one sentence that even tangentially mentioned you:
اینخا سلامت هستم و امنیت دارم. اما هر روز بیشتر به نظرم میریسد که از دنیا جدا و بی خبر میشوم. دروغ میگفتم اگر صائی کردم شما را متقاعد کنم که دلم از شکستگی شفا یافته است, ولی تلاش میکنم روزم چه پر باشد تا وقت نداشته باشم راجه به فاجعه اعظم زندگی من فکر کنم.
(To save you time, S: "I'm okay here, and safe. However, every new day it seems that I am becoming even more separated from the world and uninformed (of it). I would be lying if I tried to make you believe that my heart has recovered from its breaking, but I am making efforts such that my day is so full that I don't have time to think about the greatest disaster of my life.")
I am shaking, I am so furious. You went on and on and on and on about how what you did to me had nothing to do with my relationship with your family, back when I was still home. You asked and asked for me to "suck it up" and call Mommy and talk with her, and I finally relented because I do love her and, as (apparently) I have no spine or dignity or self-respect, I could not resist you, despite everything. Yet here you are now, essentially bitching to me from the comfort of your not-so-comfortable home as I sit in a fucking WAR ZONE, complaining about how something I did has made your life difficult. Has even a moment passed since my so-timely-for-you-departure that you considered that maybe (just maybe?) Mommy is giving you a hard time because she's disappointed in you? That she didn't know her daughter had it in her to fuck someone over as gracelessly as you did me? I can't help supposing this, because they are the same questions that make their best efforts at strangling the breath out of me every goddamned new day.
I love Mommy with all my heart; that will never change. Clearly, though, you will make my life sufficiently even more miserable, such that it is no longer worth it. As in sending me shitty little emails about how miserable your life is now. I won't say another word to her. No letters, no emails, no phone calls. Now or tomorrow or even whenever it is I finally return. She'll go on knowing that I loved her, and I'll go on knowing that I was loved (by her).
Just leave me alone, and out of this. Tell her whatever you want. Lie until you've convinced her as much as you have yourself. Of course, the easiest solution to your dilemma is to do exactly that for which you secretly and ardently wished (all the while enjoying my clueless love): move in with Dan.
And I can't help but notice that you keep referring to her as "(your) mom", rather than Mommy. All of a sudden. It seems what I've decided is what you want, anyway. Ironic, that.