When You Were Mine

No, I don’t, and yet I do, because my whole life revolved around Dylan and his needs, for years. I know about tantrums, and kicking and screaming, and sleepless nights and endless days.

“So what do you think you’ll do?”

“I’ve thought about terminating my parental rights,” she admits in a low voice, the words drawn from her with reluctance. “But it’s not a simple process. You have to go to court, and the court has to determine that it would be in Peter’s best interests to be adopted again. And the truth is, I don’t think it would.”

I am both repulsed and fascinated by her admission; it seems crazy to me that while I am fighting so hard to get Dylan back, Diane is desperate to give her son away. But then I remember that moment of weakness, when Susan was offering me the option of voluntary placement, and how tempted I was, just for a little bit of relief.

Parenting is hard. Parenting a challenging child solo can feel near impossible. And since I’ve never met Diane’s son, and I don’t know what she faces every day, I don’t feel I can pass any sort of judgment.

“You hate me,” she says flatly. “Don’t you? You think I’m a horrible person. I am a horrible person.”

“No, no, I don’t,” I say quickly, and I mean it. “I think you must be going through something very, very tough, to be thinking that way.”

She blinks rapidly and then drags a hand across her eyes before refocusing on the road. “I do love him, you know. At times. That sounds awful, but…” She expels a shaky breath that sounds like a sob. “I can’t relinquish rights. They probably won’t let me, and I don’t think I could live with the stigma. I mean, what would I tell people? Everyone at work knows him. And school… and neighbors… what would I say?” She swings her head to face me, as if demanding an answer.

“Umm…” My mind spins and blanks.

“‘Oh, yeah, he was too much work, so I got rid of him’? People judge you if you do that to a dog. You can’t do it to a person. To your only child. Not unless you’re a monster.”

She sounds so despairing and wild, I can’t help but pity her. There is no obvious solution, no easy answer… except one. “You’re not a monster, Diane.”

She nods slowly. Grimly. “I know,” she says. “Which is why he’s coming home next week.”

The Thursday after Thanksgiving, Susan meets with me to go over Dylan’s psychiatric evaluation, except when I see her, I find out that’s not what she’s doing at all.

“The psychiatrist would like to do some further observations before sharing his evaluation,” she says, and I stare at her blankly.

“What sort of observations?”

“He’d like you and Dylan to spend some time together, while he observes your interactions.”

I recoil instinctively. Is this what it has come to? My every exchange with Dylan will be put under the microscope, to be examined and dissected, while Ally, with her troubled children, gets a free pass? “Why?”

“He thinks it will help.”

“How?” I ask, but then I shake my head, because I don’t need an answer. All I can do is comply. Everything else is a risk I can’t afford to take. “Whatever. I’ll do it. When?”

“I really appreciate your willingness, Beth,” Susan says with a sympathetic look, as if she knows how hard this is for me. “And it’s not something you need to stress about—he just wants you to play with Dylan, be natural with him. That’s all.”

Sure. As if I can be natural with some psychiatrist watching and scri

bbling notes the whole time. “Just tell me when,” I repeat wearily.

The observations are set to start next week, for every Friday afternoon up to Christmas, and I think how busy my schedule has become, what with visits with Dylan, the Triple P course, counseling, and now this. There’s barely any time to get my jewelry work done, and yet there always feels as if there is too much time—empty hours spent just waiting for real life with my son to resume… if it ever will.

Time spent with Mike is a bright spot on the otherwise bleak landscape, at least. After Thanksgiving, things shifted a little between us, settled into something serious without either of us having said anything, or even kissed—other than on the cheek that one time. I’m not ready for anything else, and I don’t think I’d even call my few evenings with Mike dates, and yet he’s already become important to me, something that is both scary and profound. I think he feels the same way, but I’ve never asked, and I’m not ready to.

“When will you get a court date?” Mike asks on Saturday night, when we’re eating burgers at a place in Blue Back Square, near the town center.

“Susan says in the next couple of weeks. Hopefully before Christmas.” I brighten a bit as I tell him, “I asked her if I could spend Christmas with Dylan, and she said she thought that was a good idea.”

“That’s great, Beth.”

“I just hope he likes it.” I glance down at my burger, my appetite disappearing as I recall my visit with Dylan that afternoon—two awkward hours spent at the library and then Whole Foods, our usual haunts that felt a bit empty and unexciting now. I’d thought about taking him to the Science Center, with all of its kid-friendly displays, a whole room devoted to Lego, but I was afraid of the unknowns, a potential meltdown. I wanted to stay safe.

Yet as Dylan walked ghostlike beside me, I wondered if that has been at least part of my problem all along.

“Of course he’ll like it,” Mike says, reaching for my hand and patting it a bit awkwardly before he picks up his burger again. “Why wouldn’t he?”