Moving on . . .

I have lived in this lovely downtown apartment with a fabulous view for almost 2-and-a-half years. Strangely enough, after selling the house I bought with my now ex-husband, I applied to this building and the only available apartment was the 7th floor bachelor that I'd been living in when I first met my ex. I took it, moved in with my baby and 30 boxes of books, and waited for this lovely one-bedroom to come up. Those initial months were strange. I woke up wondering if I'd dreamed the whole of the 2-minute courtship and 5-minute marriage; then I would gaze at the beautiful child who was the outcome and be grateful, despite the searing pain in my heart. I can finally say that the pain has lessened now and changed from the anguish of loss for my fantasy of family unity and love into the ache I still feel for my young daughter, caught in the middle of a conflict that I still don't understand.

The other day at drop-off, for instance, which takes place in a neutral, public location, my sweet three-year-old put her small hand over my mouth and commanded, "Don't talk, Mama."

Then, when her father waltzed in (and believe me, this man does swing), she began to repeat, in a loud, unwavering voice, "I don't have two mommys. I don't have two mommys."

My heart seized. My ex has been telling my daughter that his new partner is her mommy, and every time I hear that I seethe. She sees this. She obviously sees this.