The retort was right there on my tongue, but I didn’t say it. Neither my father nor my ex-husband understood Max’s anxiety disorder. They wrote it off as a choice. Like Max just decided it’d be fun to wake up each day and be terrified to go to school.
Apparently, my father didn’t notice my lack of response, as he kept going. “I’ll never understand why you choose to work part-time. It’s a waste of your education and potential.”
Forcing my jaw to relax so I didn’t sound like I was speaking through clenched teeth, I replied, “While I appreciate that, I’m still a single parent. I need a flexible job schedule.”
I could only blame myself. In a moment of sheer stupidity, I told my father that my new job—I was a pediatrician at a doctor’s office called Mercy Health—was part-time. Did I bother explaining to him that it was still thirty-two patient contact hours per week, the same number of outpatient clinic hours I’d worked at my practice in Chicago where thatwasconsidered full time?
Of course not. The judge didn’t like excuses. And the fewer details I gave him about my life, the better.
“You know money isn’t an issue. I already offered to pay for what you need,” my father added, picking up his spoon and rubbing a spot with his napkin.
That wasn’t factually accurate; he would only pay for what hebelievedI needed. Which, as a parent, was technically his right. My only objection was the overt gaslighting in his comment.
I bit back any retort, opting to utilize one of my father’s favorite tools to show disappointment: silence.
“Have you made your decision regarding Eagleton?” my father asked after a few minutes of tense quiet.
I took a large gulp of my orange juice, stalling my answer. Yes, I’d made a decision. No, it wasn’t going to be an answer he liked.
Eagleton Preparatory Academy was a K through 12 private school, thirty minutes outside Green Valley. It was where I’d gone to school starting in sixth grade, right after my mother died. And last week at brunch, my father unceremoniously informed me that he expected my kids to attend school there as well.
Thisfall.
That wasn’t going to happen.
To some parents, being able to send their kids to Eagleton would seem like a dream come true. The school produced Rhodes scholars, collegiate athletes, and Ivy League graduates. However, at least when I went there, they also produced some of the meanest, stereotypically elitist pricks, who cared more about family status than general goodness.
My ten-year-old son had severe anxiety. He needed acceptance and understanding. And don’t even get me started on my youngest. Part girl and part gremlin, my daughter Ryla wouldn’t survive a week in that place. Or more accurately, they wouldn’t survive a week ofher. If someone said one wrong thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if she burned the place to the ground, then lied to everyone’s face despite being found with a used match and lighter fluid.
I’d already researched Green Valley’s public schools before I moved the kids here. Sure, the Green Valley School District was small and, like any small town, had limited resources, but the school psychologist I’d spoken to over the phone, a Mr. Sievers, was incredibly nice and curious about Max. He answered every question I had about the 504-plan evaluation process with patience and understanding. When I begrudgingly called Eagleton last week, a snooty woman on the phone told me that they “were not prepared to answer” any of my questions until my kids were enrolled in their school, though they assured me they were committed to “academic excellence.”
That was enough of an answer for me.
“I haven’t made my decision yet,” I lied. I caught myself nervously twisting with my earring, so I quickly moved my hand to my lap. This former defense attorney wouldn’t miss a thing.
“Dean Manford is doing me a favor by keeping those spots open at Eagleton.” His stern voice belied his annoyance. “They have a two-year wait list. Your hesitancy is not only unwarranted but a reflection upon me.”
If I had a nickel for every time that phrase was used growing up. After my mother died, everything from what I wore to how I acted, was carefully constructed to portray the perfect dutiful daughter. If I didn’t act according to the judge’s standards, there were consequences, like not being allowed to see my friend, Leah, or participate in an after-school activity. By the time I left Green Valley after high school, I was like a hungry rat in a Skinner box; programmed by my father to act in a certain way, slowly poisoning every life choice and relationship I’d had.
I picked up a croissant from the middle of the table and took an aggressive bite; I’d swear off grain another week.
“I’m aware. I’ll let you know soon,” I replied roughly after swallowing, knowing that he’d hate the ambiguity of my answer, but not taking the risk of committing to any timelines.
My father wiped his hands, then put both of his elbows on the table. “Those children need a school with solid foundations, not that public school you’re planning on sending them to.”
How my father managed to keep the gag out of his voice when he saidpublic school,I’ll never know. I took another bite of my croissant to keep from talking back. Focusing on the buttery goodness melting in my mouth, I recounted the things I was grateful for since moving back to Green Valley.
Number one: I’m living in a house rent-free. Sure, it came with unrelenting memories of a lonely and neglected childhood, but really, was that so bad?
Number two: My kids seemed to be doing better since moving from Chicago. There weren’t as many constant reminders of their old life, namely, their father leaving them. We’d even found a pediatric counselor in the area for Max and so far, the two of them seemed to have hit it off. And while my aforementioned daughter had a hairline trigger, she seemed to keep her cool around Mrs. Simon.
Number three: Mrs. Simon. Or maybe I should have made her reasons one and two. I’d been hanging off the side of a cliff from a fraying rope until I found her. She showed up on time every morning, stayed overnight at the house when I was on call, was excellent with my children, and brought baked goods every morning. Not good for my waistline, but who the hell did I have to impress? I had my books, my vibrator, and a door lock. I was all good.
What had my father been asking about? Oh, right. The kids’ school. Something he should havenosay over.
I looked him square in the eye, a tactic I used in high school, on the rare occasion I had to force any bravado.
“We had this discussion last week. I can’t commit to any school choices right now.”
