Page 83 of Bonus Daddy
With a grin, I nodded. Then I pushed thoughts of Brian away. We were here now. Exactly where we were supposed to be.
While the girls played with their cousins that evening, Jenn and Mel made dinner. Mel had gone to culinary school and had once been an editor at a big-time food magazine in New York. She’d worked herself into burnout, then gone on a hiking trip in the Green Mountains to clear her head. She’d accomplished her goal, and she’d also met my sister.
She never went back.
While Jenn had always worn her hair pulled back and lived in Patagonia gear, her wife rocked a trendy buzz cut and designer clothes. Now, several years, a thriving coffee shop, and two sons later, Mel still hadn’t lost her New York edge.
After the girls were in bed, as my siblings and I sat on the porch, watching the fireflies dance in the distance and catching up, my sister abruptly cut off the story she and Josh had been telling about the latest casualties in the town cheese war and shifted in her seat.
“How are you?” she asked, her brows pulled low in concern. “Really.”
“I’m okay.” I gave her a small smile.
She looked at Josh, and he eyed her in return. Jenn was the definition of overprotective oldest daughter, and Josh, while younger, was deeply protective and had been my rock during the divorce proceedings.
He’d paid the retainer needed to hire my first lawyerbefore the courts had ordered Kenneth to cover my legal fees. And he’d coached me through every step of the process. That had been back when Mom was alive and before we understood how bad things had gotten up here.
“I’m good,” I said, my words more firm this time. It was the truth. Things had been so bad for so long, and I’d worked damn hard to turn it all around.
“He’s leaving you alone, right?” Josh asked, his tone dark.
I nodded. Kenneth’s harassing phone calls and texts had stopped a long time ago. And life had improved drastically for the girls and for me. Though the guilt of our broken family, the guilt of walking away and not pushing through, sometimes edged its way back into my mind.
Doubts about myself crept back in, whispering that I hadn’t been good enough.
At first, the mental abuse was almost undetectable. It started small, with little criticisms and backhanded compliments. But then he’d get mad.
I would accompany him to a client dinner or an event, and after, in the car, he’d pick apart everything I’d said. He would get mad if I laughed too loud or talked too much. So I learned to be silent.
But even that wasn’t good enough. From there, he more blatantly criticized my clothes, my hair, and my body.
It took time, but eventually I realized I’d never win. He had decided that he was superior, that he’d settled for me. And then the cracks began to show.
But I was a devoted wife. I took care of the girls, volunteered, and constantly networked, be it at the country club or at school fundraisers.
All with the hope that one day, he’d look at me and see my value.
That he’d see the beautiful family unit we’d built. That he’d want to fight to preserve it. So I stayed small and silent.
The family unit was beautiful and sacred. And I wanted that.
I would have done anything to keep it intact.
And I did. For years, I made myself smaller. I stopped voicing concerns and opinions, and I let him walk all over me.
Jenn squeezed my hand, silently supporting me. Only then did I realize I’d been lost in my thoughts.
I sniffled a bit, not wanting to put a damper on our reunion by rehashing the past. After the loss of our parents, we’d spent so many nights on this porch crying, grieving. It was time to make happier memories.
I reclined in my chair and focused on the sunset. I couldn’t count the number of hours we’d sat out here. All six of us. Watching the sunset like this, counting the fireflies or just avoiding coming in to do homework while our parents rocked in their chairs, relaxing after a hard day’s work.
“Farm looks great. And the house?” I asked, changing the subject. “It’s astonishing. Did you secretly study interior design while we weren’t paying attention?”
Josh hung his head, his lips curving into a bashful smile. “Not quite. You know I like projects.”
I scoffed. “Repairing a fence is a project. Fixing a creaky stair is a project. You demo’d the aggressively eighties kitchen, bumped the wall out, reconfigured the layout, and outfitted it professionally. Martha Stewart would cut a bitch to have your kitchen.”
Humor flashed in his eyes. “Is that a compliment?”
