55. Kendall
Kendall
Ididn’t want Kai’s parents learning the truth about Akio, especially his dad.
I nearly shit myself when he informed me that he had told them.
I was even more worried about Kai learning things I’d kept hidden and buried for so long.
But more than anything I’m scared of losing him.
Again. And I know resolutely, like a bone deep ache, I can’t keep him and continue to withhold the truth.
He doesn’t bring up how the conversation went with his parents and I don’t ask. I’m hoping I can avoid it for as long as possible. But I know there’s an expiration date on my lies. Lies of omission, but lies nonetheless.
Our next two sessions with Magdalena go well.
Or at least I think they do. Therapy is easy and hard, confusing and yet sometimes so simple.
Full of paradoxes and ambiguity. So much time spent trying to reach an undefinable target and an unquantifiable goal.
Because how do you know what to hold on to and what to let go of?
How do you decide which battles are worth fighting?
And how do you know when you’ve healed? You don’t, I guess, is what I’ve learned.
The pain just gets easier to carry, more manageable.
And I suppose that’s all we can ask for.
During our sessions, we discuss our relationship and what it looks like now.
We also hash out the issue of dating someone constantly in the public eye, explaining to Akio who his father is, and what that means for the three of us.
She encourages us to tell him when we’re ready and gives us helpful language and tools to use with him.
On a Thursday night, after we’ve all had dinner together and finished our bath routine, we decide to do exactly that.
“Hey baby, can you come here for a second?” I say to Akio. “Kai and I want to talk to you about something.” Kai moves over a little on the small bed, making room for Akio to sit between us. I pull Akio close to me while he continues to play with his toy car.
“So, you know how Mommy, Kai, and you have been spending a lot of time together? We have dinner and breakfast sometimes and we go to the park and get ice cream together?”
“Yeah,” he nods rapidly without looking away from the toy.
“And you know that Mommy loves you so much and so does Kai?”
“Mhm,” he replies, staring at me with love and so much trust.
God, why does it feel like my heart is falling into my stomach? Like nothing will ever be the same after this. There’s an iron fist squeezing my chest and the anxiety is so visceral I’m worried I might pass out.
“Well, before you were born, Kai and Mommy were together for a really long time. We were best friends. And we loved each other so much that eventually, we had you. I’m your mommy, and I will always be your mommy, but Kai is your daddy, honey.
And I think we’re going to be spending a lot more time together. Would you like that?”
“Yeah!” he yells enthusiastically bouncing up and down on the bed.
And so it ended up being easier in a lot of ways than I thought it would be.
After our discussion, Akio carries on playing before it’s time for bed.
We read him a story, we kiss him goodnight, and we tuck him in.
Just like we do almost every night. Just like I have every night for the past two and a half years.
So much has changed and yet so much hasn’t.
And isn’t that how it always goes with kids?
They’re much stronger, more resilient, and understanding than we give them credit for.
His little world has been rocked, permanently altered and he can’t fully grasp it yet. But when he does, we’ll be ready.