The Understanding Is The Hard Part

One month.

That’s how long it’s been since the girls have spoken to their father. One. Whole. Month. No phone calls. No texts. No nothing.

I don’t understand.

Two months.

That’s how long it’s been since he’s seen one of them. He took Miss V to lunch back in June while Miss M was on her school trip. He hasn’t seen M since April. Hasn’t kept them overnight since February.

I don’t understand.

How can he let school start without talking to them? Doesn’t he want to hear about V’s teacher? Or to know about how we are having a hard time getting M’s schedule situated? (more about that later.) Doesn’t he want to know about their new school clothes, supplies, haircuts even? Doesn’t he want to know about his children?

I don’t understand.

I read two or three posts yesterday from other bloggers about depression and suicide. I have to admit, it changed my perspective a little on how I feel about him. I know he’s depressed. I know he’s hurting. I wish there was something I could do. Because honestly, as little as I care about him, I do care about my children. And this is hurting them. M’s feelings are turning to anger. V is sad. I hate it. Hate.

I don’t understand.

At this point, no one really knows if he’s even alive. He doesn’t answer me, doesn’t answer his family. I’m struggling at the moment with having one of the kids call him and see if he will return their call. Because right now we deal with it mainly by just not talking about it. But I know my children. Eventually they will ask. Eventually they will act out.

I don’t understand.

I can forgive. I have forgiven. I will continue to forgive.

The understanding is the hard part.