The Mask of Sorrow

I decided to surprise Kiddo by picking her up from school the other day.

I was so excited. I scrambled to finish work and took off during lunchtime. When I got to her school, I peeped in the window, smiling to myself as I watched her play with her classmates. As the classroom doors opened and the kids started coming out one by one, I hid behind a tree. Finally, it was her turn to come out. Her face crumbled when she saw me. She said, “Where’s Daddy? I want Daddy to pick up me!”, then she burst into tears.

Struggling to appear unaffected, I tried to make her feel better by explaining that her Dad would pick her up from school on Friday as he usually does. This was only met with more wailing, along with a wretched repetition of, “But I want Daddy! I want Daddy!”.

Maybe she thought it was Friday already. Or maybe she missed him because since school started, her time with him had to be reduced to once a week. I really don’t know. I just know that I felt my heart break a little bit again as an old wound re-opened.

It wasn’t so much the hurt at her disappointment or the jealousy over her wanting her Dad more than me. It was the from-out-of-nowhere piercing reminder that while our war may be over, there still remains an innocent bystander caught in the cross fire.

Don’t get me wrong -- sharing Kiddo’s time has never been an issue with me and her Dad. I decided long ago that I wouldn’t deprive her of being with him simply because he’s as crazy about her as I am, and is very good to her. This act of fair judgment has enabled us to look beyond our differences and accept that no matter what we were before and what we are now, we will always be connected by Kiddo.

This fact didn’t make us forget, but it did compel us to forgive; to recognize that though we failed each other, there is still a chance for us not to fail Kiddo, the one good thing that came out of our marriage. I use this knowledge like a mild balm, which when applied to my conscience, soothes the guilt of earlier decisions.

That, and the years that have gone by have warranted a lifting of the veil of bereavement. But it’s seemingly simple moments like a picking up from school when you are unexpectedly jolted by the possibility that for Kiddo, the grief may have just started. No matter how much I shield her, she will get her own share of snide comments, and encounter her own set of callous people who will make her feel like a victim. And I can’t always make it all better with a kiss and a bottle of milk.

I can always tell her that there are no broken marriages or broken homes -- only broken people who in time, can be fixed. But that is something that she will have to come to believe on her own. I can only pray that she can forgive me, and rely on me to get through the bitterness and anger. I got over the sadness, I can only hope that she will allow me to be there to help her deal with hers. I can only fervently wish that someday, she too can take off the mask of sorrow and proudly face the world without one at all.