Thanks to the lovely gentlemen who braved my horrible grammar and terrible sentence structure and edited all 24k words. Without them, you'd be grimacing at least every second paragraph.
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I was cooking dinner when my husband announced he was leaving me. At first I didn't quite hear what he was saying. Our five year old daughter was trying to talk to me about her day at school, the fish needed flipping and the sauce needing whisking, so his words were lost in the clashing and banging and 'yes honey's' I kept saying to prevent Melody from demanding a more involved response.
'I said 'this marriage is a farce',' Vaughn said. He turned to our daughter. 'Melody, go to your room. Your mother and I need to talk.'
Melody started to cry. She was overtired and hungry and desperate for attention. The sauce bubbled and thickened. I stabbed at a piece of fish with the spatula, trying to loosen it from the pan. My efforts were in vain and I pulled the pan from the hotplate.
'Let's talk about this later,' I suggested. 'I need to calm her down and finish off dinner. Can you please try and turn the fish?'
Vaughn took the spatula and hacked at the overcooked fillet while I went to collect our daughter. As I soothed her, some corner of my brain echoed back to me Vaughn's initial words.
'We need to get divorced; this marriage is a farce'
.
One of my friends would later tell me that it's near impossible for a marriage to end with any sort of dignity. There is always the instigator, who feels compelled to list and re-list and elaborate on their reasons for departing, and the deserted partner, who has to cope not only with the end of their relationship, but to try and understand why someone they thought loved them is now so gleefully parroting off their faults.
I was thirty-eight. Vaughn was a year older. We'd been partners for over seventeen years, married for fourteen. I didn't understand why our union was now viewed as weak and riddled with flaws, my personality lacking, and our love not worth salvaging. There was another woman, of course, but she was a symptom, Vaughn said, not a cause. But all the same, her presence and involvement with Vaughn had validated whatever thoughts he had harboured about our marriage, while at the same time giving him an escape.
Within a week, Vaughn moved in with his new girlfriend. He wasted no time introducing our daughter to his new partner, oblivious as to why this might cause a five year old a degree of confusion.
I guess it was easy for him to move on. He'd known for the better part of six months that the relationship was over. I'd only had a few weeks. He'd prepared, planned, adjusted. Me? I had thought everything was more or less fine.
~~~~~~~~~~
Vaughn wanted Melody every second weekend. I argued for him increase custody to include at least one day each week, so I could work back late, but he claimed she missed me too much on the weekends he had her, and she'd only cry for me more if he took her on a weekday.
Wiser women, men, stepfathers and stepmothers told me not to take it personally; what I was experiencing wasn't uncommon, and nor was it a reflection on me. But it was impossible to remain objective when someone who I thought had my back, and who I believed loved our daughter, showed himself to be mean and selfish and tight-fisted.
It took months for me to find my feet. Four months after Vaughn announced he was leaving, I was finally beginning to have a few good, intermittent days. I felt emotionally equipped to start dividing assets, and we listed our house for sale.
I avoided speaking to Vaughn. He was offended by my desire to communicate only by email or text, but I found phone or in-person conversations impossible. He was excited about his new life, his new home, his new girlfriend and his enthusiasm cut me to the quick. 'We hadn't been happy for years' was his favourite mantra. The girlfriend was always in the background, smug and spoiling Melody, while earnestly talking to me about how important it was to
educate
and
read to
my child as if these were things that I had failed to do, and were only being undertaken now because she was on the scene.
Bitter? Yes, I was, though I tried not to be.
It was my weekend with Melody so we went to the Farmer's Markets, a place I'd regularly gone with Vaughn, but hadn't stepped foot inside since my husband had left me. It was late spring and the weather was warm, the food vans smelt delicious and I felt happy and optimistic as Melody did the rounds of her favourite vendors.
Radish Man was her favourite. He was an older man, somewhere in his fifties, and he was tall and rangy and craggy faced. He wore jeans, a chambray shirt and an Akubra, and he looked every inch a farmer, but he'd once conspiratorially told me he was actually a parts interpreter who owned a small hobby farm. I'd had no idea what a part interpreter was, but the internet had informed me it was someone who figured out what spare parts people needed. I smiled every time I thought about it. He was a nice man. The older women just loved him, and I'd often wondered what went on when the market closed for the day. I had the feeling he'd bedded more than one of his customers.
Melody loved him because he had an ancient pocket knife with a sharp blade and if you asked nicely, he could carve just about anything you wanted into a radish or potato. Melody would also ask for a funny face or a letter M, and she'd take her sculpted vegetable home and place it in prime viewing position - generally on the kitchen table, or in her room - until nature took it's
its
course and it started decomposing. Then I'd begin the not insignificant task of convincing her to throw it out.
Radish Man, the farmer who was actually a parts interpreter, was there that morning, holding a young audience captive as he carved a face into a turnip. Melody ran over to join the kids as they jostled for prime position.
The face was carved and handed to its purchaser, and a number of sales of strawberries, sugar snap peas and sweet corn took place, before Radish man was handed a potato and 'a clown face' was requested.
The sun was hot and the shade minimal. I stood to the side a bit, where a tree cast a shadow, and sipped my water. Nobody noticed me. I'm a little taller than average, but neither fat nor skinny, and my dark brown hair, fair skin and amber coloured eyes are unremarkable. There's a tattoo of a frog on my ankle, one of the few vestiges left of life before Vaughn, but no other tattoos or piercings. I think I must be the only woman in Australia whose ears aren't pierced. My parents were very anti-body modification and while I lived under their roof, piercings or tats were strictly off limits. The frog was inked a week after I left home. It was my own, petty little form of rebellion.
When Radish Man finished with his second commission, Melody ran over and pleaded for money to buy one. Once upon a time I'd just dive into my purse and hand over money for the root vegetable, plus a few extra items to compensate the Radish man for his work, but funds were now tight. Vaughn was no longer contributing financially to the running of the household, which was problematic because the mortgage wasn't small, and it was sucking up over half of my income.
'No honey,' I replied. 'You can buy some strawberries from him, that's it.'
'Mummy!'
I handed her a two dollar coin. 'That's it,' I warned her.
Melody's disappointment was painfully obvious, but she said 'okay' and went to the Radish Man's stall. She waited patiently in line, until it was her turn to be served. She was on the verge of placing her order when a woman pushed past her, picked up a potato from the stall, and handed it to Radish man.
