I'm Not Ready To Make Nice

The Dixie Chicks are wailing in the background as I glare at my cell phone.  “I’m not ready to make nice,” they belt out.  I’ve had it on repeat all day.  It’s a political statement for them.  It’s a war cry for me.
 
It’s been three consecutive days and Mr. Perfect hasn’t called to speak to our son.  It’s very unlike him.  The last time I didn’t hear from him it was for a week and it was while he visited his last girlfriend in California.  I didn’t expect to hear from him then, so I wasn’t worried.

This time, I know he’s with the New Woman and her son.  He told me he would be.  I’m not afraid he’s lying dead in a ditch.  I know him better than that.  He’d run away at the first sign of trouble, too afraid to stand up and fight.  He’s always been a coward when it came to fighting someone his own size.

No, this time I’m afraid for my son.  He’s been asking about his father for the past three days.  We call and he doesn’t answer.  Bubba has left him two voice mail messages, his sweet preschool lisp babbling “I love you Daddy.  Daddy, where are you?  Can you hear me, Daddy? I love you…” until I hang up the phone.  No response.  We even sent him a Fourth of July card to his e-mail address.  I got an e-mail from Halmark.com informing me he’d opened it, but he didn’t reply.

I’d been angry a few days ago, worried that this new woman would replace me as my son’s mother.  Now I’m worried for my son, afraid that this new kid is replacing him.  He’s told me twice today that he wants to go home and see his daddy.  His dad doesn’t get his one weekend out of my month for another week.  We’re heading home tonight, back to Texas.  At least Bubba will be in the same state, if not the same city as his dad.  Maybe it will be some small comfort.