Darling Discovered

by Mrs. Darling

  I will never put myself out there like this again. What a fool. Blinded by love. Driven by lust. Never again. I am smarter than this.

  Never. Again.

  It’s about six in the afternoon and us girls are getting settled into the fully furnished condo that I was able to rent cash when the first call comes in. I send my cheating husband to voice mail.

  Ringing again. Voice mail again.

  I stare at my phone in my hand and can easily guess what’s coming next.

  Bam. Text:

  Call me right now.

  The order enrages me. Who does he think he is? He isn’t my Dominant anymore, telling me what to do, snapping his fingers, making demands.

  I think, he can just call this Ann, as I pull the battery from my phone. I scoop up my girl and sing a familiar nursery rhyme, dancing with her in the kitchen. I force a smile upon my face and keep it there through her dinner and bath routine. By the time I lay her at the bottom of her playpen at bedtime the exhaustion is making my head and body throb.

  I go into the strange bathroom and find my way around, allowing myself to just stand under a stream of hot water in the shower, trying to heal myself, to wash away the day. The disappointment is sickening though. I told my mom I left Leo when I picked up Emily. She cried. I didn’t (and still haven’t) and kept it as simple as possible.

  We have irreconcilable differences; I don’t want to talk about it. I am fine, Emily is fine, I need Mom to be a liaison for a bit while I put custody and papers in place for the legal separation and inevitable divorce. My mother looks older for the first time I can remember in many years. I’ve been so involved in trying to repair my marriage since moving here she and I haven’t spent much time together. It makes me feel guilty and surprised at myself. Maybe I should have been more balanced. Well from now on it should be easier.

  I think “easier” and my heart hurts. Why should it be easier now that I am divorcing?

  Because I have been expecting this all along. Was I ever prepared to trust Leo fully again? Was that ever even possible? I’ve been waiting for the bubble to burst ever since we moved here, thinking that no way things could improve, that it was impossible to move on from where we were. Like fate fulfilling the prophecy here we are at the end again.

  The hot shower soothes my body and I keep an ear open for sounds from my girl, starting to mentally make a plan for the next day and next few months.

  I need to let Leo see our daughter and I need to start looking for a job as soon as possible. I need new interview clothes and my mind turns over the possibilities for childcare for the first time ever. I haven’t worked in a year and a half. Would it be hard to do again? Should I try and find something on the weekends and see if Mom could help me with Emily? Should I start looking into daycare tomorrow? Ugh.

  For a moment my heart pines to have the life back that I thought I had two days ago. But I will never sacrifice my dignity to get it.

  I force myself to get clean before my water runs entirely cold and once stepping out I look into the bathroom mirror naked. Wow. What a transformation I have made in the last year. I remember finding out about the Atlanta mess and seeing myself through watery eyes not recognizing my image. It’s a feeling of déjà vu; eerily familiar but so different somehow. Where last year I had short unkempt hair that I barely took the time to blow dry now I have long locks that shine white. What were gnawed up fingernails then are now perfectly manicured natural nails, painted stop sign red for the holiday yesterday. God was that just yesterday?

  Of course the biggest difference is my body. Not even just the absence of being uncomfortably pregnant. As I stand naked in front the mirror I pay attention to myself for the first time since last night; covering myself in long sleeves and full length yoga pants for the move today, relieved for the chill in the air as an excuse.

  I am scraped all over, rubbed raw from the tryst in the wooded area. I have heavy bruises on my bottom and thighs and a smattering of inch wide rectangular black and blue spots, the obvious marks of Leo’s belt. The small red nick that stings my neck is almost invisible unless you look closely. My breasts are angry and red, painful to even put on a sports bra from being fucked against the tree. I am torn up.

  I remember last year, the first half of the déjà vu, and how much I hated looking myself in the eyes in that mirror because even though I had just learned my husband was living a lie, I was too. I had lied to him and every other person I’ve dated besides him and even myself since high school. I’ve known for so long who I wanted to be, what I wanted out of life, and I was too scared to say anything.

  At least now when my marriage is dying for the second and final time I look at my tattered and lean, imperfect body and I fucking love myself. I was wrong last night to have questioned if the stunning lady in red could possibly be me. That was me and this naked, used up submissive is me too.

  I absolutely love who I am. I asked for this. Of sound, clear, healthy mind I wanted this. I begged for this and fantasized this to life. That doesn’t make me strange or a whore or any less of a lady. It’s just a part of me. Not all that I am, no, but it’s ingrained in my blood; unable to be turned off. I want to serve. I will never allow myself to be denied that or ashamed of it again. I fought to be this. I fought and I won.

  I look across the bathroom counter and make a split decision, doing something I haven’t done since living alone post-break-up in my post-college apartment. I grab the bar of soap from the sink still new and just unwrapped a few hours prior. Looking at my naked body I lean forward over the counter and stand on my toes using the soap to draw on the mirror.

  At first it is a huge lopsided heart surrounding my body. I stand back satisfied and smile for the first real time that day. I’m going to be OK. I have myself, the real me, and the real me can do anything. I start to step away and at the last minute dash with the soap again inside of the heart, scrawling:

  Hold

  On,

  Pain

  Ends.

  Hope.

  I crawl into the unfamiliar bed naked and quiet and put the battery back in my phone for the first time since disarming it earlier. The familiar jingle rings out making my stomach feel sick in anticipation. Should I listen to his voice mails and read his messages or not?

  I go to the messages first and entirely delete the twelve waiting texts from “The Mister” without even opening the thread. I want to hear his voice. I call the mail box and it says I have six new messages waiting. It plays the oldest first, the first one from when he discovered me gone. Heart hammering, I press one to play and there is the voice of the man I once called Sir. He sounds frustrated. Not upset, not apologetic, but pissed. Asshole.

  “Chloe. Call me back; this is a huge mistake you’re making. Ann-”

  I hit end. I can’t do it. Not yet. Hearing her name in his voice is like a knife to my heart. I go back into the voice mails and delete all the messages without listening to them, hitting 7 as fast as I can, arms held out far from hearing distance.

  I draft him a text:

  Emily and I are safe. You can pick her up Friday at 7 at Mom’s. Please don’t contact me. In case of emergency, contact my mother and she will contact me.

  I read it three times over and hit send. I instantly go into my call settings and block Leo’s number. I know it can’t stay this way forever. I know we will have two decades of co-parenting to sort out. But not now. I can’t yet. As tired as I am I lay in the silence unable to fall asleep, hating myself for wondering what Leo Donnovan is doing at this moment in time. I expect the tears to finally come.

  None do.

  I walk a lot the first few weeks. Meditate a lot. Spend a lot of time with my mother. What I don’t do is talk to Leo Donnovan. I wonder wistfully if he is even making the attempt anymore. Does he miss me at all? Is the beach house a mess? Has he hired a maid? God forbid has this Ann come over and started folding his plaid boxers and white undershirts?

  I replay the message constantly in my mi
nd: “…don’t call when you’re with your wife...”

  I focus on restarting my life as a single mother of a young child and I have still yet to shed a single tear. Maybe I have cried all I can over this man. Maybe they’ve all been used up.

  Free of my schedule as a wife and submissive I’ve created a new schedule in my head, refusing to crawl up into a ball and die. That’s not who I am now.

  I spend the first few days finding a great day care for Emily. My mother has reluctantly helped trade off custody so I don’t have to see Leo quite yet. I can’t; I’m afraid of how I will react if I do. I am devastated by the idea of hearing whatever his excuse is for what happened.

  When the first weekend comes up I bring Emily to Mom’s with a weekend bag packed after she arrived home from work feeling relieved that Emily has her familiar crib to go back to. When I hand my daughter over my chest empties, my heart detaching and following my girl.

  I spend the entire weekend in comfy clothes creating a résumé (it’s been years since I’ve needed one) and applying for local jobs. Any time I turn on music or the television I see something that reminds me of him so I sit and work in silence and focus on what I need to do. Job. Permanent place to live. Lawyer up. Custody. Divorce.

  Every time I see my mom she tries to talk about the separation, not caring that it hurts me to hear. As a grandmother, she wants the reasoning for us breaking up her granddaughter’s family unit. No matter how she approaches it I keep mum. I am embarrassed and ashamed; all familiar feelings to me from last year. I have every reason to leave, the easiest excuse in the book to give, but something keeps me from spilling the story. So instead she dotes upon Emily, allowing me free time to process the emotions and establish a new way of life. One without Leo.

  I miss my husband. No doubt. Who we were as D/s certainly but also him in general. Our friendship. The person who never judged me. God how we laughed. How we loved.

  The new routine is simple. Get up in the morning, let Emily watch her favorite cartoon and snack on cereal; I get myself showered and ready for the day. Get her ready, take her to the new day care, and go back to my condo. I pick up, make a fresh pot of coffee, pull out my laptop, and “go to work.”

  Check the web for new job postings, apply for a few, catch up on news, narrow down the search for an annual rental, looking for something close enough to Mom and Leo’s for convenience. One time I search for “divorce attorney.” I stare at the search results that come back and immediately hit the tiny red X in the corner, tucking it back away.

  Early in the afternoon I get Emily and do something fun with her and every other night I drop her off at my mom’s for Leo to pick her up for the evening. When Leo has Emily I go to a local park or a nearby beach and spend a few hours sitting in silence staring at nothing. I review every decision I have ever made in my marriage. Play it out over and over again remembering every detail from courtship on. Sometimes I get lucky and can silence my brain for a few moments.

  It’s been a month. The hardest and most lonely month of my life.

  It’s a Monday morning and while it kills me to bring my girl to daycare after just getting her back into my arms I drive her there at nine and head back to my routine. I start the coffee and as I’m waiting for it to finish brewing I hear an unexpected knock at the door for the first time since moving. My heart pounds. Who even knows I live here? Is it Leo? Did Mom cave in to his charm? Did he serve me with papers from an attorney? Is he ready to start the divorce?

  I walk slowly to the door and look out the peephole. Grinning, I open the door and take the cheese strudel from my mother’s hands. I greet her with a hug and ask:

  “Ma! What a surprise! What are you doing here?”

  She answers instantly, prim lips pressed together, “I want to talk to you about Leo.”

  I set the pastry down on the kitchen counter and turn her well-dressed small frame around to guide her back outside. Determined woman that she is (and always has been) she acts like dead weight in my arms and we both laugh at each other acting foolish on a sunny spring morning.

  “Ma, I don’t wanna hear it.” I insist, straightening us both out.

  This time she looks at me seriously and replies, “Chloe, I don’t really care. You still want my help in this mess you are going to hear me out. Now get me some coffee and a piece of that,” she points to her pastry, “and join me on the balcony.”

  Dressed in a perfectly pressed pantsuit looking like the dictionary picture of “sophisticated woman” my mother heads to the glass slider.

  Rolling my eyes at her order-making I get two plates of strudel and two cups of coffee and settle into the fresh air beside her. I take a moment to wonder when the summer rains are supposed to begin again and realize that we moved here about a full year ago.

  A horror creeps into my brain and after hearing Mom tell me the date when I ask it’s confirmed. Today is one year exactly. The day. One year ago Leo and I sat in the sand together and shook hands on giving it until exactly today.

  Oh well. Guess I don’t need to make that trip. My heart breaks a little at the thought. So much good. But oh so much pain.

  I can see my mother watching me, waiting for me to start talking and I sit quietly, my mid-morning snack untouched. Five minutes into the silence Victoria Larchmont reaches across the space and does something she hasn’t done since I was a child. She holds my hand.

  “Chloe. I know I wasn’t always available to you when you were a child. An only child raised by a single mom sometimes gets lonely and even though I saw that in you, I was helpless to change that. I had to work. It wasn’t an option. There were bills to pay, college tuition to save for, and while child support helped it didn’t pay for me to stay home and raise you up like you do now with Emily. Or did. Whatever. I would give anything to go back in time and try to make things work with your father. I don’t know. Sought counseling, made more compromises, whatever. For the chance to stay home and watch you grow up day in and day out.

  “Don’t get me wrong, dear; it wasn’t that I was doing anything to harm you. You thrived, always. I worked while another child’s mom was a chaperone at the field trip. I hired a tutor instead of helping you with homework. I missed out. But it was necessary and I did my best to be a good example of a career woman to you instead, to show you what it looks like to be an independent woman.

  “Now I see you here with your own little family and you all looked so happy. If you want to give up the ability to stay home with your daughter that is your choice. But I want you to think about it very hard. Because you will only have one chance to make this very permanent decision. One.”

  I rip my hand away from hers. I can’t believe what I am hearing.

  “This is about Emily? This is about your granddaughter?” My anger escalates my voice. I remind myself to be cool, that she didn’t make this problem. I continue doing my best to keep an even temper.

  “That’s bullshit Ma. What about me? I’m your daughter. What about my best interest? What about my happiness?”

  Pursing her lips again and sighing heavily she continues her speech she has obviously driven over to deliver:

  “I am thinking of your best interest. I am always thinking of your best interest, that’s what mothers do. And that is why I want you to see things from further away before making a decision. You have tunnel vision on this, Chloe. I want you to think about your impact on the entire family. To consider fixing this.”

  “Leo cheated on me Ma. In Atlanta. That’s why I’m here, why we moved here. He had an emotional affair with a coworker while I was pregnant.” I spew the truth with a hammering heart, relieved and horrified to have it exposed. What I am not expecting is her response.

  “I know. Leo told me,” comes from my mother’s pained face.

  I stammer out, “Whhhat? Wh-when?”

  She is calm while I begin to shake. “Yesterday. I spent the day with Leo and Emmie. He asked me over for lunch and I agreed. I stayed for coffee while she napped and
he told me. He told me everything.”

  Then it hits me; now as my anger bubbles over it is directed at the right person.

  “If you know all of this, you know he cheated on your daughter, how dare you tell me I should be talking about reconciling? What the fuck, Ma?”

  The conservative, Catholic woman who raised me up reels a little at the “f-word” like I knew she would. When she responds it’s a bit tenser; more agitated.

  “I never said to go running into his arms and be blind to his faults. Don’t put words in my mouth. And don’t you dare curse at me again. But I want to tell you something Chloe. You were always such a happy girl. You marched to the beat of your own drum and it left me in awe because I don’t have a bit of that in me.

  “But sometime after high school I saw your passion dull. I didn’t know what to make of it. You were still healthy and functioning as a reasonable adult should but you were muted somehow. Always going with the flow. Agreeable, when the daughter I knew was always pushing buttons.

  “Until you met Leo. Until I saw you around him. Until I saw the way he looked at you while you were turned away. It’s as if he switched your light bulb back on and it has only gotten brighter and brighter. You practically glow when you’re around him. So don’t for a second think this is about Emmie. This is about my girl, the girl who was glowing until a month ago.”

  I choke back the lump in my throat. “Ma? Did he tell you about Ann?” I ask weakly, feeling defeated.

  She pushes her lips together wide and I watch her tear up.

  “Yes. He did. You need to talk to him about Ann.”

  “No way. Nuh-uh. Never.”

  I stand up clanking the porcelain plates and cups into a stack ready to be done with the conversation.

  Mom follows me as I move to the kitchen and hurls across the room, “You have to Chloe. Or I am done getting involved. No more hand-offs. You can arrange for Emily with him yourself.”