My daughter was born on a Friday. She is loving and giving. Her love for me gave me back my life. I had a few crises of the soul when I was younger. I seemed to always trip over my own two feet. Dead-end, mediocre, menial jobs occupied my financial life. I partied every off minute and lead a debauched existence.
My daughter’s father entertained me with amusing, witty stories. Is there a better reason to have a relationship with someone? Back then I didn’t think so. That man could weave a yarn. Pie in the sky tales, funny, sarcastic jokes, wild dreams and promises of castles in the sky that we would build together.
He lived in Canada. I even visited him there early in our relationship and I continued with him after discovering he lived with a friend in his friend’s apartment and he had no car. I believed all of the stupid reasons for his situation. I knew better even then but thought so poorly of myself that I ignored my better judgment. Neither of us were children at this point. I was twenty-seven when I got pregnant, he was (brace yourself) forty-four.
I moved to Canada. We lived with his friend. I couldn’t work. The Canadian economy wasn’t too great and they didn’t want to hire an American. The only car we had was mine. I ended up being stuck in Niagara Falls bored out of my mind, pregnant and with a bunch of unfulfilled promises. The last straw for me (six months pregnant) was when he wouldn’t go to work because he wanted to go bowling. I finally woke up.
I wrote a note saying bye. I packed my car up and moved back to Jersey and never looked back.