There have been a rash of burglaries on our quiet suburban street, and the neighbors are whispering suspicions in front of our kids. Who was that dark man in the white car parked outside your house the other morning? It was my brother-in-law, actually, and we were going for a nice suburban jog through these quiet suburban streets. Oh, okay, they say. We should all keep an eye out. Yes, we should. Thank you, I say.
I have a son who is an obsessive worrier. He’s also too smart to fool. The what ifs fire rapidly. What if someone breaks into our house? What if they steal our car? What if they kidnap me? What if they hurt me? What if…? It will be okay. It won’t happen. I promise you it won’t happen. Your dad and I would never let that happen. “But it’s always a possibility,” he says, effectively dismantling any assurance I could ever offer. That night, he runs screaming into our bed in the dark, early morning. I wrap my arms around him and rub his back and he settles into sleep. The next night, he does not want to go to bed, but we convince him that it will be okay. When he’s finally asleep, I sneak in and make sure the blinds are closed tight, that no lurker could see him if they tried.
All of this is to say that I am going to work and I am caring for my children, and I am not spending my days thinking mean thoughts about my stepmother or her son, my half-brother, Jaden.
My father was looking for a babysitter so he can spend a weekend with one of his lady friends. He is at my house for a visit this morning when my stepmother texts him. She doesn’t want my little brother to stay at my house. She is worried that I hate him, that I will be mean to him, that I think I am a better parent. The bar is set very low on that last one. I do not abuse my children. I do not hit my children with high heel shoes, or make them kneel on gravel, or tell them they are worthless, or force them to hug their uncle who touches them inappropriately, so, yes, at the very least, I am a little bit better. “I am concerned,” she says. She is concerned that I will damage him. Oh, the irony! I love my brother Jaden. I am only ever kind to him. He’s not even two years older than my eldest.
I interact with this woman a few times a year. I send her a text message on her birthday. I send her a card when her mother dies. It takes a tremendous effort to squeeze out these tiny kindnesses. This woman was physically and emotionally abusive to me for my entire childhood, and I have managed to say hello and even I love you and continued to call her Mom instead of Lucy at the biannual family gatherings.
For some reason, this was it. We are finished. Here is the dictionary definition of write-off: “an elimination of an item from the books of account.” Lucy, consider yourself written off.