I booked my flights to see them.
Two tickets cost me more than what most people make in a month. I guess it’s the time of year, the distance, the airline.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
It’s not about the money. I don’t care about the money, and I never will.
I haven’t spoken to my children in four weeks. I’m starting to lose count of the time because it’s just long. So painfully long. I don’t tell my friends (although they might read it here) because it’s too much of the same things to say over and over. What more can they say? The sympathies only last for so long. More custody setbacks? Everyone is sorry. Nobody has solutions. How can they? I don’t have them myself. Neither does my lawyer. Neither, it seems, does Hashem.
I miss my kids.
This weekend I saw little boys my own sons’ ages, playing and enjoying shabbos with their families. A little boy coming to give his mother a hug. A son sharing something he was proud of learning with his mother. Do I tell them how painful it is? Do I try my hardest to concentrate on the compliments – how polite my daughter is, how lovely she is – without dying that they can’t see how wonderful my boys are too?
Telling new people I have more than one child when they only see me with one is excrutiating. It’s hard to say they live by their father. Harder still to say I don’t see them or speak with them.
There is no good reason. There is no good outcome. It has been four years since I was my children’s mother. I can concentrate on helping my daughter make better choices than me.
I wish I had good news. The truth is, I don’t think I ever will.