7. Chapter 7
Elowen
The next morning, I wake to see a text from Julian. I had my phone off, so I hadn’t seen it yesterday. Good thing I hadn’t, too. It would have been the last thing I needed. Especially since it’s so cruelly detached.
Julian: Virginia mentioned your resignation. Please coordinate with HR regarding outstanding projects and transition materials. Your personal items can be collected as arranged.
That’s all I’m good for, right, Julian?
Equally infuriating is how I had already coordinated with HR. He has the files. But knowing Julian, he’s looking for physical files because that’s what he prefers. He hadn’t realized I’d been printing files for him every day and giving him color-coded folders. Everything is in the company cloud.
I’ll call Virginia later and tell her. I won’t be doing it for Julian, but for her. She’d be the one to have to listen to him complain every day.
First, I need to shake off my nerves and gain another bout of confidence, because the thought of calling Julian’s work—once ours—has my chest physically aching.
The best way to boost my confidence is to spend time with the kids. At times they’re exhausting, but they’re also what I’m most proud of.
The neighborhood park sprawls before us, in a patchwork of play structures and open grass.
Around us, other families pal around. There’s a father pushing a toddler on a swing, a group of children chasing each other across the field, two mothers chatting on a bench while monitoring the sandbox.
They’re all normal people living normal lives, and now, I’m one of them.
Leo tightens his grip on my sleeve, his body pressing against my side. This isn’t the usual playground we go to, and his anxiety has only intensified.
“What if they don’t like me?” he whispers, eyes fixed on a group of children climbing the jungle gym.
I crouch beside him, straightening the collar of his jacket. “They’ll like you because you’re kind and smart and interesting.”
He doesn’t believe me. I see the doubt in his eyes.
Meredith has no such concerns. She spots a game of tag unfolding near the swings and breaks away from us without a backward glance, her purple sparkle boots leaving small imprints in the damp grass.
“I’m playing, too!” she announces to the group of children, who barely pause before absorbing her into their ranks. One second she’s an outsider, the next she’s integrated, laughing as she dodges a boy’s outstretched hand.
Leo watches her with a mixture of envy and disbelief.
“How does she do that?” he asks, so quiet I almost miss it.
The question pierces me. How indeed? Meredith moves through the world with the confidence I once had. She’s me before I learned to make myself more convenient for Julian’s comfort.
“She just does,” I tell him. “And you can too, in your own way.”
I point toward the sandbox, where there’s a single boy about Leo’s age making a series of tunnels and moats. “Look at what he’s building. I bet he’d love some help.”
Leo shakes his head, pressing closer.
“Just watch him first, if you want,” I suggest. “Sometimes it’s good to observe before jumping in.”
This resonates with him because observation is safe. I guide him to a bench with a clear view of the sandbox, and we sit together, watching the boy’s progress.
“He’s making a castle,” Leo whispers after a few minutes. “But his walls keep falling down.”
“Maybe you know how to help make them stronger?”
Leo considers this, his small forehead creasing in thought. “I think I do,” he says finally.
“Do you want to tell him?”
Another pause. “I think I’ll show him.”
It takes one more minute of silent deliberation before Leo slides off the bench, straightening his jacket in a gesture so reminiscent of Julian that my breath catches. He approaches the sandbox in a way that’s careful not to appear too eager or too invested.
I watch him kneel beside the boy and point to the crumbling wall, demonstrating a different technique. The boy looks up, considers Leo’s suggestion, then nods.
Meanwhile, across the playground, Meredith’s laughter rings as she takes her turn chasing the other children. She runs with abandon, hair flying, arms wide, claiming space without apology.
The contrast between my children crystalizes something I’ve been avoiding.
Leo, with his careful movements and strategic interactions, mirrors Julian’s approach to relationships.
They’re calculated, always evaluating cost versus benefit.
Meredith, fearless and expressive, reflects the person I was before I learned to dim my light for Julian’s comfort.
Before I had to prove myself by showing how organized and stiff I can be, too.
I don’t want this for them. I don’t want Leo to inherit Julian’s emotional guardedness, his inability to connect. I don’t want Meredith to learn, as I did, that accommodating others at her own expense is a virtue rather than a slow form of self-abandonment.
My children deserve better than the patterns we’ve established. They deserve to keep their light, their authenticity, their right to exist without constant calculation of their worth. Much like Julian’s pro-con list.
On the bench, I dig my nails into my palms. This isn’t about me anymore; it’s about breaking cycles before they become ingrained habits.
An hour passes. Leo and the sandbox boy have constructed an elaborate fortress with moats and bridges. Meredith has cycled through three different games with varying groups of children. Both are flushed with exertion and satisfaction when I finally call them to leave.
“Mommy, can we come back tomorrow?” Meredith asks, slipping her hand into mine as we walk toward the park exit.
Leo, trailing slightly behind, adds quietly, “Sam said he comes here every weekend morning.”
Sam. The sandbox boy has a name now. A potential friend.
“Yes,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket, the absence of Julian’s messages a strange new freedom. “We can come back tomorrow.”
As we leave the park, I focus on my children’s hands in mine. One grips firmly, the other loosely. Effectively reset, I’ll call Virginia when we get home.