(no subject)
Just finished a really tense phone call with Dylan. At some point, I asked him (as I have for many calls) how he and his sister were getting along; they sometimes fight (as siblings will), so I want to remind him to try to do better. This time, Charlott could clearly be heard in the background, telling Dylan he shouldn't talk about that with me anymore. At this prompt, he repeated the very adult phrase he's occasionally come out with: "Can we not talk about this anymore?"
On the one hand, I'm oddly happy. I'd heard odd pauses, and snatches of her in the background, before; what was happening was obvious to me, and yet hard to prove. It took until today for her to fully show her hand, in front of a documented and unimpeachable third party: the visitation center she chose to hide behind. I no longer have to wonder how much of this is just in my head, in my solitary and biased perception of this fight. There is now concrete proof, transcripts, witnesses.
But on the gripping hand . . . I wish I'd been wrong. I'd been harboring the same false hope that I once did for my father: maybe, with the right set of circumstances and actions, a light would finally break through the clouds. Instead, my son has been mired in the same bad circumstances I was; caught in the fight between his parents, one willing to use anything (even him) as a weapon to defend their parental self-worth.
I feel like I should be livid, or maybe despondent. Instead, I'm just filled with a sad determination. The Charlott I knew is long gone, replaced by a mental clone of her vile mother. There's little to do now but gird for battle, and slay the beast carefully.
Edit: The prompting may not have been Charlott, but whoever the current babysitter is. Still, I warrant it was done with Charlott's knowledge and consent, if not her insistence.
On the one hand, I'm oddly happy. I'd heard odd pauses, and snatches of her in the background, before; what was happening was obvious to me, and yet hard to prove. It took until today for her to fully show her hand, in front of a documented and unimpeachable third party: the visitation center she chose to hide behind. I no longer have to wonder how much of this is just in my head, in my solitary and biased perception of this fight. There is now concrete proof, transcripts, witnesses.
But on the gripping hand . . . I wish I'd been wrong. I'd been harboring the same false hope that I once did for my father: maybe, with the right set of circumstances and actions, a light would finally break through the clouds. Instead, my son has been mired in the same bad circumstances I was; caught in the fight between his parents, one willing to use anything (even him) as a weapon to defend their parental self-worth.
I feel like I should be livid, or maybe despondent. Instead, I'm just filled with a sad determination. The Charlott I knew is long gone, replaced by a mental clone of her vile mother. There's little to do now but gird for battle, and slay the beast carefully.
Edit: The prompting may not have been Charlott, but whoever the current babysitter is. Still, I warrant it was done with Charlott's knowledge and consent, if not her insistence.