| Biographical Non-Fiction posted October 6, 2020 |
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On being told some unexpected news...
Fond Imaginings Evaporated
by LisaMay
I remember how the world stood still when he told me. It didn’t come crashing down, but I did hear a sad little whimper as my fond imaginings evaporated. The sudden realisation that my future would not be as I’d envisaged left me floundering, emotionally and verbally. I went home to process the information alone.
Gary and I had been keeping company for long enough to know that we’d be together forever. That, in itself, was an assumption, but sometimes you just know. We might not have been married to each other or actually living together yet (I assumed we would, eventually), but in words and actions our lives, hearts, minds, and bodies were linked in a forever connection.
My home was just around the corner from his, and I was treated like ‘another mother’ by his two children — they were in and out of my house whenever they wished to be there, as was Gary. The same went for me at their home. I attended the children’s sport and their school activities with Gary, just like a ‘real’ family.
I was in my late twenties when we first met, then when we got together and as the years passed I could see that Gary was a terrific dad, very involved in their parenting. He loved me. I loved him and his two young children dearly, and could tell that I would enjoy motherhood. Sometimes assumptions are made based on observations such as these, without an actual conversation taking place. I assumed that Gary would want a child with me, and probably soon, as I was into my mid-thirties by then. Gary was seven years older.
When he sprung the news on me that he’d had a vasectomy the day before, I was stunned. Who was this man? Surely the man I loved would’ve talked about this major decision with me? Gary rationalized it by saying that having two children was enough, that he knew I loved his children, and that he didn’t think he could love any extra child as much as he already loved these two.
I felt completely sidelined. To me this was an alarming indication of gross selfishness. I was confused. I hadn’t taken Gary to be a selfish person. I felt I had the right to be upset about his solo decision, and worked myself up with righteous indignation. Then doubts crept in. Perhaps I was the selfish one? I hadn’t opened up about my own thoughts. I should respect Gary’s honesty. He clearly knew himself, knew what he did and did not want to happen.
Then he said this: “I assumed you’d understand. You’re adopted. You know from your own experience that a family doesn’t have to be blood-related.”
Another undiscussed assumption. What Gary didn’t know was that I yearned to have a blood relative. At that time, adoption laws of privacy made it impossible for me to find my birth background, to find my birth mother. I’d hoped (possibly assumed) having a child would give me an identity connection.
Gary was right; I did love his children and felt protective towards them as if they were my own. He was right in that two children is probably enough for a couple to have, and perhaps he was right in thinking he knew himself well enough that having a child with me might complicate his emotional attachment to his first two.
I felt I was right as well, but now the decision had been made anyway, and I had to work out how to deal with it.
Do you want to be right or happy? That question is one I’ve often considered when faced with contrasting viewpoints – where to place importance and what is at stake. I got on with loving Gary and his children, and was happy for many more years.
That period in my life did teach me a lesson: not to make assumptions without discussion and analysis. So when Gary started acting evasively and unreliably, I queried his commitment. We had a frank and open discussion: a painful one.
He was in love with a much younger woman. He left to be with her. I heard later from mutual friends that he’d had a vasectomy reversal operation. I hope it hurt like hell.
I Remember writing prompt entry
I remember how the world stood still when he told me. It didn’t come crashing down, but I did hear a sad little whimper as my fond imaginings evaporated. The sudden realisation that my future would not be as I’d envisaged left me floundering, emotionally and verbally. I went home to process the information alone.
Gary and I had been keeping company for long enough to know that we’d be together forever. That, in itself, was an assumption, but sometimes you just know. We might not have been married to each other or actually living together yet (I assumed we would, eventually), but in words and actions our lives, hearts, minds, and bodies were linked in a forever connection.
My home was just around the corner from his, and I was treated like ‘another mother’ by his two children — they were in and out of my house whenever they wished to be there, as was Gary. The same went for me at their home. I attended the children’s sport and their school activities with Gary, just like a ‘real’ family.
I was in my late twenties when we first met, then when we got together and as the years passed I could see that Gary was a terrific dad, very involved in their parenting. He loved me. I loved him and his two young children dearly, and could tell that I would enjoy motherhood. Sometimes assumptions are made based on observations such as these, without an actual conversation taking place. I assumed that Gary would want a child with me, and probably soon, as I was into my mid-thirties by then. Gary was seven years older.
When he sprung the news on me that he’d had a vasectomy the day before, I was stunned. Who was this man? Surely the man I loved would’ve talked about this major decision with me? Gary rationalized it by saying that having two children was enough, that he knew I loved his children, and that he didn’t think he could love any extra child as much as he already loved these two.
I felt completely sidelined. To me this was an alarming indication of gross selfishness. I was confused. I hadn’t taken Gary to be a selfish person. I felt I had the right to be upset about his solo decision, and worked myself up with righteous indignation. Then doubts crept in. Perhaps I was the selfish one? I hadn’t opened up about my own thoughts. I should respect Gary’s honesty. He clearly knew himself, knew what he did and did not want to happen.
Then he said this: “I assumed you’d understand. You’re adopted. You know from your own experience that a family doesn’t have to be blood-related.”
Another undiscussed assumption. What Gary didn’t know was that I yearned to have a blood relative. At that time, adoption laws of privacy made it impossible for me to find my birth background, to find my birth mother. I’d hoped (possibly assumed) having a child would give me an identity connection.
Gary was right; I did love his children and felt protective towards them as if they were my own. He was right in that two children is probably enough for a couple to have, and perhaps he was right in thinking he knew himself well enough that having a child with me might complicate his emotional attachment to his first two.
I felt I was right as well, but now the decision had been made anyway, and I had to work out how to deal with it.
Do you want to be right or happy? That question is one I’ve often considered when faced with contrasting viewpoints – where to place importance and what is at stake. I got on with loving Gary and his children, and was happy for many more years.
That period in my life did teach me a lesson: not to make assumptions without discussion and analysis. So when Gary started acting evasively and unreliably, I queried his commitment. We had a frank and open discussion: a painful one.
He was in love with a much younger woman. He left to be with her. I heard later from mutual friends that he’d had a vasectomy reversal operation. I hope it hurt like hell.
Gary and I had been keeping company for long enough to know that we’d be together forever. That, in itself, was an assumption, but sometimes you just know. We might not have been married to each other or actually living together yet (I assumed we would, eventually), but in words and actions our lives, hearts, minds, and bodies were linked in a forever connection.
My home was just around the corner from his, and I was treated like ‘another mother’ by his two children — they were in and out of my house whenever they wished to be there, as was Gary. The same went for me at their home. I attended the children’s sport and their school activities with Gary, just like a ‘real’ family.
I was in my late twenties when we first met, then when we got together and as the years passed I could see that Gary was a terrific dad, very involved in their parenting. He loved me. I loved him and his two young children dearly, and could tell that I would enjoy motherhood. Sometimes assumptions are made based on observations such as these, without an actual conversation taking place. I assumed that Gary would want a child with me, and probably soon, as I was into my mid-thirties by then. Gary was seven years older.
When he sprung the news on me that he’d had a vasectomy the day before, I was stunned. Who was this man? Surely the man I loved would’ve talked about this major decision with me? Gary rationalized it by saying that having two children was enough, that he knew I loved his children, and that he didn’t think he could love any extra child as much as he already loved these two.
I felt completely sidelined. To me this was an alarming indication of gross selfishness. I was confused. I hadn’t taken Gary to be a selfish person. I felt I had the right to be upset about his solo decision, and worked myself up with righteous indignation. Then doubts crept in. Perhaps I was the selfish one? I hadn’t opened up about my own thoughts. I should respect Gary’s honesty. He clearly knew himself, knew what he did and did not want to happen.
Then he said this: “I assumed you’d understand. You’re adopted. You know from your own experience that a family doesn’t have to be blood-related.”
Another undiscussed assumption. What Gary didn’t know was that I yearned to have a blood relative. At that time, adoption laws of privacy made it impossible for me to find my birth background, to find my birth mother. I’d hoped (possibly assumed) having a child would give me an identity connection.
Gary was right; I did love his children and felt protective towards them as if they were my own. He was right in that two children is probably enough for a couple to have, and perhaps he was right in thinking he knew himself well enough that having a child with me might complicate his emotional attachment to his first two.
I felt I was right as well, but now the decision had been made anyway, and I had to work out how to deal with it.
Do you want to be right or happy? That question is one I’ve often considered when faced with contrasting viewpoints – where to place importance and what is at stake. I got on with loving Gary and his children, and was happy for many more years.
That period in my life did teach me a lesson: not to make assumptions without discussion and analysis. So when Gary started acting evasively and unreliably, I queried his commitment. We had a frank and open discussion: a painful one.
He was in love with a much younger woman. He left to be with her. I heard later from mutual friends that he’d had a vasectomy reversal operation. I hope it hurt like hell.
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Writing Prompt Begin your non-fiction autobiographical story or poem with the words 'I remember...' Complete the sentence conveying a moment, an object, a feeling, etc. This does not have to be a profound memory, but should allow readers insight into your feelings, observations and/or thoughts. Use at least 100, but not more than 1,000 words. The count should be stated in your author notes. |
Author Note: Word count is 714.
The following website, provided by a reviewer of this story, will provide useful information about power imbalance in a relationship, another form of domestic violence:
www.angelfire.com/vt/rcwn
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one point
and 2 member cents. The following website, provided by a reviewer of this story, will provide useful information about power imbalance in a relationship, another form of domestic violence:
www.angelfire.com/vt/rcwn
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