Today was our first kid exchange. And prob­a­bly a pre­view of all inter­ac­tion to come. My hus­band was aggres­sive, intim­i­dat­ing, his anger seething just below the sur­face. I tried to keep the con­ver­sa­tion to a low-vol­ume min­i­mum, as we were push­ing the kids on swings, and my son kept turn­ing, try­ing to hear what was being said. Before long, my hus­band was all too will­ing to throw accu­sa­tions in loud moments of unchecked tem­per and cause a scene at the park, despite the tears stream­ing down our son’s face.

I wish some­one I knew had been near­by to hear every­thing that was said. Dad was wait­ing in the park­ing lot incog­ni­to, in case things got out of hand, but the only wit­ness­es were strangers… and our two lit­tle kids.

All I remem­ber is try­ing not to smile when he would launch into his attempts to sell me on what he wants and how, and what I knew were lies. He’s always been the one in con­trol. Even after “dis­cus­sions,” I would always end up agree­ing with him. He is a mas­ter of sales after all; that’s what he uses his psy­chol­o­gy degree for. 

He is so used to get­ting his way on every­thing, so he was upset I already told the kids about the divorce. I remem­ber telling him that he is no longer my spir­i­tu­al author­i­ty or cov­er­ing, and that I’m going to do what I think is best for the kids. He yelled that I’m try­ing to turn the kids against him, and before I could reply, our son quick­ly turned, and with an almost fierce look of dis­ap­proval on his face, stared at his dad and qui­et­ly said, “I don’t think Mama would ever do that.” And I felt such love. Pride. Peace. My son knows me bet­ter than that.

After my husband’s final out­burst, I gen­tly told my son I was leav­ing and to walk out with me. I didn’t want his anguished tears to con­tin­ue. But his dad loud­ly com­mand­ed him not to. I told my son it was ok, and held out my hand. His dad again com­mand­ed him not to… and by the third time, all eyes in the park were on us. I didn’t want my son to be caught in the mid­dle (already!), so I knelt before him, brushed the tears away, framed his face in my hands. I told him it’s time for me to go, and he doesn’t have to come with me if he doesn’t want to. But as I strode away with my daugh­ter, my son came run­ning after me.

I made qui­et con­ver­sa­tion with the kids as we walked to the park­ing lot and got their things from my car. By the time we got to my husband’s car, he had calmed down. Once the kids were buck­led inside, he tried to be “rea­son­able” with me. He once again start­ed stat­ing his case. Fun­ny how a man who mocked me when I asked a month before if this were the do-over Dear John con­ver­sa­tion he told me he want­ed after medi­a­tion, kept try­ing to do it over. I lis­tened, as I always do, and would come back with Scrip­ture in response to the erro­neous log­ic and out­right lies he said, and then he would just … look at me. It was fun­ny actually. 

He claimed to under­stand my hurt, and that’s when I abrupt­ly cut him off, with some­thing to the effect of, “You have no idea what I’m feel­ing. I don’t claim to under­stand the pain of your child­hood. Don’t pre­sume you know what I’m going through.” He said he knew I hat­ed him and was try­ing to pun­ish him. Look­ing him straight in the eyes, I told him, “Nobody is try­ing to pun­ish you. Every­thing you’re going through is a nat­ur­al con­se­quence of your own deci­sions. I don’t hate you. Believe it or not, I have no ill feel­ings towards you what­so­ev­er.” With a smile full of won­der, I added, “It doesn’t make any sense, but at times, I feel such joy and peace on the inside.”

I final­ly had enough. He’s already held me hostage for hours at a time before, try­ing to jus­ti­fy and explain and get me to “under­stand” why he’s right about the choic­es he’s made. I sim­ply said, “I’m leav­ing,” and left with a huge smile on my face and laugh­ter in my heart. 

He has been such a con­trol freak for so long, because he had to con­trol no one see­ing into his secrets and lies, con­trol pub­lic per­cep­tion, “con­trol the nar­ra­tive.” And now the house of cards he’s so care­ful­ly con­struct­ed is start­ing to fall. It start­ed to fall the day he real­ized I wasn’t com­ing back with the kids. I was no longer under his con­trol. I make my own deci­sions; his opin­ions no longer matter.

This is how I fight my battles.

Today’s Playlist: