Dante’s mouth dropped a little at this news, and then snapped shut. Turning back to the road he muttered, “Remind me not to anger you.”
Mary grinned faintly, but shrugged. “He was the only one I did those kinds of things to. I’m pretty sure I was a good mother. I worked very hard at it. And I was perfectly lovely otherwise.” She pursed her lips and admitted, “I think getting all my aggression out on him made me much more patient with the children and everyone else.”
“Thank God,” Dante breathed.
“Yes, I could really have screwed up those children had I allowed my anger to stretch to them. Fortunately, torturing him was enough.” Mary paused and frowned and then admitted, “Although, I did influence their opinion of him a great deal. It was inevitable, of course. He was often away and I was always there. I shuttled them to school, practice, friends etc. And I never praised him to them. I didn’t put him down either really. I mean I never said he was a lying, cheating louse or anything, but I did often use the term, “Oh, your father,” in that derogatory manner you really shouldn’t use in regard to the other parent in front of children.” She made a face and admitted, “I’m pretty sure I undermined his position with them without even really trying.”
“But that may not have had much affect had he been there to spend time with them,” Dante pointed out reasonably. “Had he been there, they would have got to know him as his own person rather than the man who occasionally showed up at the house and the one you ‘oh, your fathered’ about.”
“True, but then I didn’t make his being home an attractive proposition,” she pointed out.
Dante frowned, but Mary continued before he could argue further. “As I say, that went on for years. Fifteen to be exact.”
“And then his son showed up at your door,” Dante said quietly.
Mary nodded and fell silent as the pain of that discovery washed over her anew. She loved her children and had considered them her own from the minute they’d been placed in her arms, but in that moment, looking at the young carbon copy of her husband . . . Mary thought she might have killed Joe if he’d been home at the time. But she knew without a doubt that after she’d heard what else the boy had to say, she definitely would have killed her husband had he been there.
Eleven
Dante glanced toward Mary with a frown. She’d quite suddenly gone silent, and considering the topic, he was concerned about her. After another moment passed in silence, he said gently, “You must have been very hurt.”
“Hurt?” she asked dryly, and then snorted. “I was freaking furious.”
Dante’s eyes widened and he glanced quickly her way, taking note of her anger now just at the memory. She was nearly vibrating in her seat with it. Shifting his gaze back to the road, he cleared his throat and asked, “Because the boy was proof Joe was continuing to have affairs?”
“No,” she assured him. “Not about the affairs. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the affairs by that point. I had been completely asexual since the miscarriage, shutting down that part of myself. What I cared about was his children. I was furious that he’d had them, and paradoxically, furious that he hadn’t been a part of their lives or taken any responsibility, even monetarily, for their existence.”
“Ah,” Dante murmured, and wasn’t sure what to say to that.
Another moment of silence passed and then she announced, “I left him that afternoon. I packed up the kids and checked into a motel and made an appointment with a divorce lawyer, all by dinner.” She swallowed and then admitted, “But I never went to see the lawyer.”
“Why?” Dante asked at once, and when she didn’t answer right away, glanced over to see that she was peering out the window at the passing scenery. Her expression was closed and he shifted his gaze back to the road, simply waiting.
After a moment, she sighed and said, “Carol came to see me at the motel. We were good friends even then. Dave and Joe often traveled together, and we were each other’s support when they were gone. So, of course, I called her with the crushing news of Joe’s betrayal. She came rushing to the motel and we talked and cried for hours. She thought I should leave him, of course,” Mary added wryly. “And then she gave me the number of a therapist her sister had been trying to get her to go see. She had no interest in counseling, but if I wanted the number . . .”
“Surprisingly, I did. I knew I was angry and had contributed at least somewhat to things, and I didn’t want to carry that anger and self-destructive streak on out of the marriage and into any future relationships. So, I called this therapist. Her name was Linda and she just happened to have a cancellation the next morning, so I went to see her. It was the best call I ever made.”