November 1988. I packed up all our stuff and we headed to Pennsylvania to spend a couple of weeks with the family.
While we were there, she questioned how I could just leave him, blaming me for the failure of our marriage. She had no idea what had gone wrong in our marriage. I didn’t tell her things like that because she was always so critical.
So I told her. After I told her, she fell silent. She never said anything about it again.
Just before Thanksgiving, we got on a plane and flew to Spain.
December 1988. My life was quickly taking a downward turn. No longer under the constant threat of attack, I slipped further into depression. I was barely holding on. I had no patience at all for the boy who was now 3 years old.
I was only able to communicate with my family on a monthly basis. This was life before the internet, cell phones. One Sunday I called her and asked her if I could bring the boy home. She didn’t hesitate to say yes. I was grateful, relieved I could count on her for this one thing.
Taking the boy home was the hardest, best choice I could make at the time. My memory is blurry on this one. I’m not exactly sure when I took the boy home, but I think it was sometime between January and March of 1989.
When I returned to Spain alone, life really took a turn for the worse emotionally.
To be continued…