Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

He walks into my room.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Packing my stuff.”

His eyes roam over the underwear on the bed. “You have a date tonight?”

“Yes.” I continue looking through my drawers.

“Where did you meet him?”

“None of your business. Get out.”

He exhales heavily. “Can we talk about last night, please?”

“No.” I bend and begin to look through my shoes in the bottom of my walk in wardrobe.

“I didn’t want anyone to know that we were together.”

I throw my high heels onto the bed with force. “We’re not together.”

“She’s just a girl that I work with,” he adds.

“I don’t care who she is. This isn’t about her.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “What is it about then?”

My eyes rise up to him. “You can’t be that fucking stupid.”

“Try me.”

“This is about you and your inability to communicate.”

“I communicate,” he hits back, outraged. “I communicate very well.”

“You have no idea how to communicate with anybody, not even your children.”

“That is not true.”

“Okay then, smartass. You found out what that girl said to Willow last week about her mother at the soccer game. Did you bring it up and talk to her?”

He frowns. “I don’t want to upset her.”

“Ignoring her is upsetting her!” I yell. “Tell me. Tell me the last time you talked about anything with either of your children that was about them.” “What? I talk to them every day. What are you on about?”

“You talk to them about what’s on television, world events, what they are eating, homework, school related things. You have trivial conversations, nothing more, nothing less.”

He frowns harder.

“When was the last time that you asked them about something personal? Willow played golf last week and she was really, really good, but you didn’t even discuss it with her. Why? Why are you like this?”

“Because I don’t have the pleasure of being the fun parent. I have to be the disciplinarian.”

My face creases. “They are good kids. They don’t need a disciplinarian. They need a father to show them how to love.”

He drops his head and then his eyes flash up to me angrily. “This is none of your business. I will not discuss my children with you.”

“You wanted to talk. This is me talking.” I fold my arms over my chest. “While we are at it, why are there no photos of their mother anywhere in this house?” I add.