When I got out of my car at the playground, I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my chest. I was so angry, yet I actually appeared calm on the outside. I walked carefully, deliberately, slowly. I was so mad at myself for having relinquished control of this situation. But mostly, I was livid with D for having pulled the bellydancer into Little One's life within hours of our conversation.
"Responsibly" was simply not a word that registered with D.
I walked steadily towards the scene. It was a playground with older equipment, including a serpent which undulated up and down from ground level up about 3 feet. On one high point, sat Sally, wearing a page boy cap, white pea coat, jeans, and brown leather knee-high boots. She was watching D and Little One, turned away from where I was. So she didn't see me.
On another part of the serpent, D was holding Little One's hand, helping her climb up and down the waves of the serpent's body. He was intently focused on her well-being, watching her, which meant he knew that he was being watch by someone whose opinion he valued. I knew he was showing off for Sally.
So he didn't see me either.
Neither of them actually saw me, standing there, cold, and furious. But Little One did. She looked up, and saw me, standing about 30 feet away from the serpent. "MOMMA!" she exclaimed happily. Sally visibly startled, and looked over to where I was. I didn't acknowledge her. I was watching D for his reaction, and it was not a disappointment.
His head snapped up quickly, like he'd been hit in the jaw, from looking at Little One, to find me standing there. He looked me in the eye, and as Sally watched us both, back and forth (I have excellent peripheral vision), she tried to keep her face calm. She watched him much more than she watched me. She actually looked concerned.
I watched his face change as he realized the implications of what he'd done. Then I watched as it dawned on him that he had no idea what was going to happen next. I wish I could say I didn't relish the moment. But I did. I was thoroughly, and completely, in control.
Except for one beautiful, three-year-old, bright-eyed factor: Little One.
She was, thankfully, oblivious to the adult dynamic happening around her. "Mommy!" she yelled again, letting go of her dad's hand and racing over to me for a big hug. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Hi sweetie!" I said, trying to keep my voice as normal as possible, but projecting loud enough so Sally and D could hear me. "I was driving by here on my way home after getting my haircut. And I saw Daddy's truck, and wanted to come say hi."
My daughter, who is, and always will be my favorite person in the whole world, said, "I like your haircut."
I fought back tears.
Little One's next move was to run back to her dad and proclaim, "Daddy! Mommy's here!" He was still watching me, warily, not smiling, and very, very scared.
Then Little One ran over to Sally, and looked at me, and pointed to Sally. Little One's face was happy and open. I tried to mimic it as best I could. "Is that your new friend, honey?" I asked her.
"Yes, she's Sal-ly," she said carefully, enunciating each syllable. She smiled coyly, like it was a secret. "Can you stay and play with us, Mommy?"
"Oh, sweetie," I said. "Even I'm not capable of that, I'm sorry." I paused. "I just wanted to come by and say hello. I'll see you when we get home."
"NO!" she yelled. "You have to stay! Watch what I can do. Daddy, Daddy, show Mommy what I can do!"
And so I now found myself standing 10 feet away from the bellydancer, who still perched atop the serpent. (I'm sure there's some lovely mythological analogy I could push here, but it escapes me at the moment.) Little One held her dad's hand as she climbed up and down, up and down the curves of the serpent. She looked to me to make sure I was still watching. So I made small talk in the meantime. I was not going to play invisible.
"So, Sally," I said politely and evenly, not quite looking at her, not smiling. "It's been a while. What's it been, a little over a year? How are you." That last sentence is not missing a question mark. I actually said it as if to say I'm simply making small talk. I don't really care how you are.
I could see D watching us as he held Little One's hand. I kept my eyes on D as I conversed with Sally. Sally replied, nicely enough, "Doing well, thank you." It was then that I looked at her for the first time, I mean, really looked at her face.
She looked awful. And I don't mean that in a snippy way. I mean, in the 14 months since I'd first met her, she looked like she'd aged about a decade. Her previously smooth, bright face was gaunt, and bags had appeared under her eyes. Her bright red hair, peeking out from under her cap, was now a muted, dull auburn. Mostly, she just looked concerned for D, and sad. Unfortunately, I could not glory in this moment, because all I felt was sorry for her. Fucking good upbringing, I thought. I wish I could enjoy this more.
We made some more polite small talk as we both watch D with Little One. I honestly don't remember what was said. I was operating on a polite level, but only because I knew I was going to nail D to the wall when he came to my house later that afternoon to drop off Little One.
I called out to Little One to come over to me. I bent down on one knee, and put my eyes level with hers. "Listen, honey, you have fun here with Daddy and Sally," I said. "I have to go home now and let the doggies out."
"No!" she said. "I want you to stay here and play with me and Daddy and Sal-ly."
"I'm sorry, honey, I can't," I replied. She looked crestfallen, and I hated myself for it. "I just have to get going now, because the doggies really need to go out, okay? And Daddy will bring you home real soon."
"Okay, Momma," she said. She ran back to her dad, who was watching me.
"We'll talk later," I said to D. I nodded towards Sally. "Goodbye," I said.
I walked solidly back to the car, turned it on, backed out of my parking space, drove home, and found that I had exactly 38 minutes until D would bring Little One to my house. That was, I knew from previous experience, just enough time to have a hell of a good cry and still clean myself up enough to where it wouldn't look like I'd been crying.
So I used that 38 minutes to do exactly that, and was ready for battle when I heard Loud n Dusty come up the hill.
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