Second Chances

by William Umansky

  “Jen, I did read that note.”

  The words penetrated my heart like a spear. I couldn’t believe it at first. Then I burst out in tears.

  “I was a bad daughter. I’m so sorry, Mom.”

  “No, baby, you were a teenager,” my mom said. “I knew you would say things and not appreciate how they might hurt someone. Look, I know we clashed a lot when you lived at the house, and I know you felt like Sofia was the favorite, which was not true. But none of that ever meant that I didn’t love you. I do love you. So much. And I wanted to give you a chance to take back the hurtful things you wrote. I left the note there.”

  “Oh, Mom. Can I take those things back? Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course, Jen. I will love you no matter what. You’re my daughter, and I would never have it otherwise.”

  We hugged, and it was at that moment that I realized how wise my mother was. She knew I would want to take back the things I said in the note. I thought about the relationship I had had with my mother two years earlier, about all of the rules my mother had, about all of the punishments I had endured. I realized maybe my mother did have my best interests in mind the whole time. While I changed, my mom stayed the same—she was still looking out for me and still cared about me the same way she did when I was little.

  “You will always be my daughter, Jen,” my mom said. She took me by the hands. “Whatever was said or done in the past, I love you. I know we might have had a hard time liking one another sometimes, but I want to give our relationship a second chance. Would you do that for your nosy old mother?”

  I started to smile, wiping away my tears. “Oh yes, Mom. I really like that idea.” I dropped the note from my hands, and it fluttered to the floor outside the doorway.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PARADISE LOST AND FOUND

  Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.

  —Martin Luther King, Jr.

  I was eighteen when I first met Elena, and I knew I loved her from the moment we met. I will never forget her delicate, dark features and flowing black hair from the day I first saw her.

  We were in college together, and when we first started going out, it was like we were in paradise. We were in a big city, studying new and exciting things, with all new people to learn about and explore. We had our whole lives ahead of us. We had barely even chosen our future career paths. It made me excited to think about going through those life-changing events with this beautiful woman. I will never forget the early days we shared in college.

  When we graduated, I got a job in the communications department at a marketing firm, and she went on to law school and became a lawyer. We stayed in the city, and when we had saved up enough money, we decided to have a family. In 2006, we had a little boy, Hunter, and in 2007, we had a little girl, Violet. We were happy and making enough money to live comfortably.

  The problem was that we saw each other less and less. Some weeks we only saw each other on the weekends. The absence of one of us in the house would often spark an argument over who was not there for the other person or not being with the children enough. I thought she was too into her career. She thought I wanted too much “me time.” Either way, we’d argue about not being in the house, not making enough time to be with one another, and not making time for our family.

  We would usually work it out. We both knew we had to work hard to sustain this lifestyle and to send our children to good schools and give them everything they needed. I was hurt she thought I didn’t want to be around her, but I secretly thought she was acting unfairly. Every time I turned around, she had something to do for a client or somewhere to be. I guess I was trying to compromise for our own good.

  One weekend night, I texted Elena over and over. I expected her home, and I had planned to take the children to a movie. I thought we could all go as a family. I thought she’d be home in the afternoon, as I didn’t think a client would take time into the evening on a weekend. But she hadn’t come home by 5:00 p.m. She hadn’t come home by 6:00 p.m., either. I rented a movie and watched it with the children. She hadn’t come home by 8:00 p.m.

  Finally, at 10:56 p.m., she walked in the door. I had already put the children to bed and was playing video games. I got up and kissed her when she came in, but I didn’t say anything to her about her absence. I didn’t want a confrontation. I was just glad she was home.

  The next week, on Thursday, I expected her home at 5:00 p.m. I was going to watch Hunter’s soccer game, and I thought she would try to catch the end of it. I didn’t see her until 11:00 p.m. again. And I didn’t say anything. Again, when she came home, I was just glad to see her and glad to be with her.

  One Sunday night the following month, she didn’t come home at all. I took Hunter to school the next morning. She was relaxing in bed when I came back. When I came in, she came over and started to talk, but I stopped her and demanded to know what was going on.

  She admitted she had been having an affair with a client, a guy that worked for a bank she represented. She said it had gotten out of control. Apparently, it had been going on for the last seven months.

  I might have forgiven her for that one time, but she admitted it was not the first affair she’d had during our marriage. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  I learned this guy had taken her to expensive restaurants and jewelry stores. He had taken her to plays, to music events, and had sent her countless romantic love letters. It made me so angry, and I could barely control myself.

  I threw her out of the house. I didn’t know how I was going to explain this to Hunter and Violet. What would I say?

  After several weeks, I cooled down. I decided that it was brash of me to throw Elena out of the house. How could I break up our family over sex and some gifts? She had never cheated on me in college. Everyone knew that we were in love just by looking at us together.

  So I called her up with the intention to forgive her and to tell her I really didn’t want this to break up our family. Instead, this conversation happened:

  “Elena. Hi.”

  “Hi, Adam.”

  “Elena, I want you to—”

  “Adam, I want a divorce.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I don’t love you.”

  I hung up the phone and cried.

  We hired lawyers. We went to court. We cited irreconcilable differences. I didn’t really care what the reason was. I just didn’t want it to happen. I felt so empty inside. I wasn’t angry. I just felt nothing.

  I was awarded primary custody of our children. I knew that we both would have to have very painful heart-wrenching conversations with them about what was happening. I didn’t want to have to tell them these things. I wanted to say that their mommy still loved me somehow.

  I moved to a different part of the city. I went back to doing my job at the marketing firm and received excellent reviews. I was doing well enough to buy my children the good toys and take them to exciting places. I would do anything to help them forget what was going on with us. I hated to think they were enduring such unhappy things.

  For about eight months, I focused on my children and tried to block Elena out of my mind. I didn’t think about what she was doing, but it was lonely at night. I couldn’t help thinking I had loved a woman so much and now it was all gone. The happiness I would experience in the future would never be the same as those days in college when we had so many possibilities before us and felt like we lived in paradise.

  I started to date other people, cautiously at first, but then more regularly. It was okay. I saw a lot of women. I had a few one-night stands, and I had a few girlfriends. I never really clicked the same way with anyone else, though. It was never the same.

  After a year and a half, Elena showed up at my door. She was not scheduled to pick up the children that day. She said that she wanted to talk.

  “Adam, I was thinking … I’ve been very selfish. I couldn’t help feeling like I cut myself off from an exciti
ng world when I got married to you. That’s why I did those things. I’m sorry. The exciting life is not the same as the life of a person who is loved. I was distracted by it, Adam, and I’m so sorry that I forgot that I loved you.”

  Elena put her hand over her mouth and started to cry. She quickly turned around and walked to her car. Then she drove away. She was already driving away before I could even answer her.

  We’ve been talking since. We’ve gone out for coffee a few times. She’s taking time off work, and we’re planning to go on some dates in a few weeks. We’re learning about each other all over again.

  When we talk about our achievements and the things we have in common, I realize how much I appreciate Elena—what a free-spirited, smart, independent woman she is. We remember the old times, but sparingly, as we both find it emotional to recall our more innocent moments together. I think she knows that I’ve forgiven her, but we’re feeling each other out right now. I think we might be different people than before. We are two different people who have to figure out if they love each other. And it’s difficult to start over—there is a twilight zone somewhere between picking up the pieces, reminiscing, and relating to the other person on a new level.

  I want Elena and myself to rediscover love, though. I want us to be a family. I want it to happen. I know it’s what our children deserve. It’s probably what Elena and I deserve, as well. My life with Elena is definitely worth a second chance.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A NEW BEGINNING: A STORY OF UNCONDITIONAL LOVE

  Whatever they grow up to be, they are still our children, and the one most important of all the things we can give to them is unconditional love. Not a love that depends on anything at all except they are our children.

  —Rosaleen Dickson

  My parents didn’t like the clothes I wore, how I did my hair and makeup, or the people I kept around. I suppose it started with typical clashes. They would punish me for staying out late, for smoking or drinking. All they ever cared about was how well I was doing in school and what sort of long-term goals I had for myself. I felt like they weren’t letting me be myself.

  My mother and I would have swearing matches. My father would come home and occasionally slap me when he found out how I had acted with my mother. He would get more frustrated with me every time. But I didn’t stop rebelling. The confrontations just made me angrier at my parents.

  When I turned fifteen, I decided I was done living in the house. I packed a bag and just ran away. I made my way out west and made friends with a group of girls who were prostitutes in a West Coast city. We had a lot in common—several of the girls had also run away from home. Three of them had fathers or stepfathers who took advantage of them. We had a lot of things to talk about. Oh, and these girls were fun. They always wanted to party.

  I hardly thought of my parents at all when I first started hooking. The money was good, I didn’t have to go to school, and I was always with friends. Life was exciting. It was like being able to hang out, all of the time. I didn’t have my own apartment, but I was always able to stay with one of the girls. I found that was easier than having a home anyway.

  By the time I was seventeen, I had been assaulted at least ten times. I had my arm broken once, and I was robbed five times—twice at gunpoint, once at knifepoint. I had been arrested twice, but I never spent more than a night in jail. It became even scarier to stand out in the street. If it wasn’t a thief or a weird john, it was the cops. I had to watch my back.

  Two weeks after I turned nineteen, my best friend Dawn was murdered by a john after a dispute about a price. It was terrible. I cried, but my sadness was followed by this hardened, cold feeling. It was almost like I was telling myself that I would have to get used to things like this happening. I was starting to realize the path in life I’d chosen was a dangerous, morbid dead end.

  One afternoon I was getting on the subway and caught eyes with a familiar, bearded face. The man was carrying a few bags and had on an Atlanta Braves shirt. It was my Uncle George. He looked so much older now. He said my name questioningly, and we hugged. I hadn’t seen him since, I don’t know, one of my last birthday parties at the house. He was so happy to see me, and we talked for as long as we could. Eventually, we had to leave, but we exchanged information.

  When I asked Uncle George about my parents, he said they missed me terribly and were afraid for me. They hoped that I was still alive and that I was at least doing something that made me happy. It made me want to cry, but I held back.

  He took me by the shoulders and told me, “Look, if you love your mom and dad at all, please contact them. Go on their Facebook page, call them, just let them know that you are okay.”

  He told me that he knew it was my life and these were my choices, but that my parents still loved me and cared about me. I had to get away from Uncle George quickly because I wanted to cry.

  That week I went to an Internet café and logged on. I found pictures of my parents on Facebook—pictures of them in the house, visiting relatives, playing with children and pets, and even with me, doing some of the things that we used to do together. Their life was beautiful. My parents still loved each other, and they looked so happy together. But I knew the pictures without me contained put-on smiles. There were even captions on the pictures that talked about me, about how they loved me and missed me. I broke down and cried. People probably stared, but I didn’t even care.

  A few days later, I went back to the Internet café and signed up for an e-mail account so I could get onto Facebook. I was able to chat with my mother for the first time in a couple years.

  The first thing she said to me was, “Vanessa, we love you. Please come home.” I told her my life was awful, that it was dangerous, that I was a prostitute and homeless, and that I missed them so much but felt like I couldn’t go back to them. I felt ashamed that I was selling myself to men, and I was so afraid that my dad, particularly, wouldn’t welcome me back because he would be so disgusted with me.

  She told me that she and my dad loved me no matter what and that they missed me terribly and were worried about me. She told me that she wanted to get me the help I needed and that they both wanted to be part of my life. I told her I just didn’t want my life to be like this anymore, so violent and sad. She told me she wanted the violence and sadness in my life to end as well. She said she knew that they had been harsh with me when I was younger, but it was only because they wanted me to turn out all right. She told me it would never escalate to violence again, that she wanted that part of my life to be over for good.

  “Please just come home,” she messaged to me. “Anything we need to work out, we will. We will always love you no matter what—unconditionally.”

  I got on a bus and went back home. It was one of the happiest days of my life to walk through that old door in our old house. The house had the same rooms, the same pictures on the walls, the same windows. A few of the flourishes were different—the colors of the walls and the locations of some decorations. The furniture was different.

  My father’s hair had grayed a little, but he was in good shape as always. My mother looked as young as she always did to me. She was beautiful. They were really my parents, right there with me. We all cried, and for the rest of the night we sat and got to know each other again.

  I never looked back at my brief life of being homeless and a prostitute. I have a daughter now, and I always let her know that nobody will ever love her like family. I tell her that her mommy was lost for a while, but that her grandma and grandpa helped her when nobody else cared. I want her to know that I will always forgive her and love her unconditionally. My parents gave me a second chance to have a happy, peaceful life, and for that I am always grateful.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THANKS, COACH

  The best teachers of humanity are the lives of great men.

  —Charles H. Fowler

  Dear Coach Ellison,

  How the hell are you? I know it’s been a really long time since we’ve t
alked. I remember we saw each other at Christmastime, maybe two years ago, but I think that’s the only time we’ve seen each other in the last ten years.

  I know people don’t usually write letters anymore. They usually e-mail and all that electronic stuff, but I didn’t really know how else to contact you other than looking up your name in the phone book. This old-fashioned letter will have to do.

  The reason I’m writing you is that I wanted you to know a story about me.

  When I was five years old, playing baseball was one of my favorite things. I always wanted my father to play with me, and he did when he got a chance. I was just never really good at it, though. I could bat righty and lefty, I could catch a pop fly, I could run pretty fast, but I always got nervous when the chips were down.

  Coach, in the five or six years that we knew each other when I was around that age, there are two games that stand out in my mind—when we were playing Beverly Heights, and when we were playing Jefferson City Elementary.

  During the Beverly Heights game, I remember you put me up to bat in one of the late innings. There was a man on one base, and I don’t remember exactly what the score was, but it was probably close. When I got up to bat, you told me that I had to hustle, and to keep my eye on the ball, of course. So I got up to bat, knocked the dust off my cleats, and spit on the ground.

  The pitch came in and sank right in front of me. I swung so hard, I lost my balance and missed the pitch. Everyone laughed, but I heard you say, “Shake it off! Keep your eye on the ball, Michelson!”

  The next pitch came in, and I kept my eye on the ball, but I must have jumped at it because I swung with everything I had and missed the ball. Everyone laughed again, but you clapped and kept encouraging me.