Chapter 1

You know, if I didn't hate the bitch so much at the time, I probably would have thanked her. Of course that would imply that my ex-wife's actions were meant to benefit me instead of her, so she wouldn't have known what I was thanking her for in the first place. I'm glad I let it pass.

Instead, I think I'll just tell you the story.

My ex-wife and I were married for 12 years. I would guess that 4 of the 12 were happy — but only because a person sleeps one-third of his life. We got married for the wrong reason — she was pregnant with our daughter — and we stayed married for the wrong reasons — we had a comfortable life and we didn't want to disrupt the children's lives.

Yeah, children. We added a little boy to the mix two years before the divorce. I truly think the only reason we stayed married so long is because we both were simply too busy to take the time to file for divorce. I knew shortly after the nuptials that my life would be hell. I think Kelly figured it out pretty quickly too.

But we had a little girl to think of and we toughed it out. Kelly dropped out of college to raise Kasey while I finished school and started to work. I got a job at a newspaper out of college and Kelly went back to school when Kasey turned 5.

Our son was as big an accident as our daughter and the volatile household exploded when the demands of an additional child came along.

Kelly had completed her master's degree and was working toward a doctorate in sociology when she announced that she was pregnant. I did not greet the news enthusiastically. I was working 70 hours a week and Kelly was trying to finish her thesis when our son was born.

I took one look at his cute little face and I immediately regretted all the years I missed of Kasey's life. I vowed that I would be there for the important moments of Mark's childhood.

Of course, Kelly had a different plan. I cut back on my hours to help out with Mark and Kasey. I was rewarded with divorce papers about 6 months after Kelly finished her Ph.D.

She accepted a professorship at a college in another state and was granted physical custody of the children. I was left in an empty house with little to fill my time. I started doing volunteer public relations work for a little known state representative candidate and was rewarded for my efforts by becoming her press secretary when she actually won.

I worked for her for a year before parlaying my success into a managing editor's post at a newspaper five miles from my children. I moved in three blocks from my ex-wife and immediately started to exercise my custody and visitation rights with more frequency that I could have from 400 miles away.

My life was going pretty well. I got to spend time with my kids almost every day without seeing my ex-wife. I was doing a job I enjoyed and I was making enough money to cover my bills, my child support and still be able to eat.

Little did I know how much was missing.

It was a Saturday morning like most others. It wasn't my weekend with the kids so I was planning some housework and a series of naps.

I'm nothing if not Mr. Excitement.

That all changed when a hateful old man fell down the stairs.

When I say "hateful old man" I mean every word in its sincerest connotation. Kelly's grandfather was almost 90 years old and mean as a snake. He hated everyone and everything — and the feeling was reciprocated. He lived alone because a dog couldn't even stand to be around him.

I'm not kidding. No less than 3 dogs had run away rather than deal with the man. But I digress.

Kelly's grandfather lived about 150 miles from us and the nursing agency called because someone — anyone — needed to come and take care of him. Not a problem for me because I was no longer married to the hateful old man's hateful middle-aged granddaughter.

Of course, when Kelly has a problem everyone has a problem. One phone call from Kelly and some of her difficulties were passed on to me.

"I need a favor," Kelly told me.

I will admit that I am unlikely to grant a favor to my ex-wife for any reason. OK, I guess "unlikely" is the wrong word. I refuse to grant a favor to my ex-wife under any circumstances. It's just the sort of relationship we have.

If my kids need something, I'm all over it. If my neighbor needs something, I'm there. If a stranger on the street stops me and asks for something I can deliver, it is likely I will.

My ex-wife? Not a prayer.

"Too bad," I replied.

"I'll give you an extra week with kids this summer," she answered.

"Two weeks and then we'll discuss it," I shot back.

There was silence on the line. We already split the kids' summer breaks down the middle anyway — sometimes right down to the hour. Don't ask. As I wrote, it's just the sort of relationship we have.

"One week to talk about it," Kelly said. "Two weeks if you'll help me."

"I want it in writing from your attorney," I told her.

"I don't have time for that," she insisted. "I'll hand-write it and I'll tell the kids they get the extra time with you. They'll never let me out of it. Will that do?"

"What do you want?" I asked.

"It's not for me really," she said. "Look, granddad took a spill and broke his hip. Mom and Dad are God knows where and won't be home until Christmas Eve. I have to go down there and take care of the old bastard."

"Kelly, I'll keep the kids without a deal," I interjected. "You know that."

"No, I want the kids to come with me so I won't suffocate the man in his sleep," she told me. I didn't get the impression she was joking. "Look, you know that shelter I help out with?"

Ah, the She-Woman Man Hater's Club. I did, indeed, know of the battered women's shelter of which she spoke.

"Yes," I said warily.

"They have a big Christmas dinner planned for Monday," she said. "I agreed to make a ham and mashed potatoes for them. Oh, and to get some gifts for the kids. If I'm with granddad I won't have time to do that. Will you do it for me?"

"They would be afraid I laced it with arsenic," I answered. I also wasn't joking. I knew that the women at the shelter had come from abusive relationships but I also knew that not every man behaved like a Neanderthal. The women who ran the place didn't seem to get that memo.

"I told them it would either come from you or they would go without," Kelly said. In her defense — and I don't come to her defense often — she was uncomfortable with many of the policies of the shelter but she also viewed the women there as worthwhile. I had to agree with her on that point — and I don't agree with her on much either.

"OK," I said. "Let me know what I need to get and I'll handle it."

"I've already got it," Kelly said. "I just need to drop it off to you. All you have to do is fix it. Oh, and Mark needs two dozen cookies for a program at church this week. Can you do that too?"

"Of course," I answered. "Have you got the dough?"

"Yeah," she said. "I was planning to bake all weekend. I am sorry about this, Mike."

Stop the presses! My ex-wife said she was sorry.

"No problem," I said. "Honestly, if it would just screw you over, I probably wouldn't do it. But the only people who'll suffer if I don't help you are the folks at the shelter and Mark. So I'll do it."

I told you about the relationship I had with my ex-wife, right?

"I know," Kelly said. "And I really do appreciate it. Do you want the first eight weeks of summer or the last?"

She must have been in desperate straits indeed.

"We'll talk about later," I concluded. "Just drop off the stuff and get down there to wipe your grandfather's ass."

"Prick," she said before she hung up.

Please don't get the impression that my residual anger is over the divorce. It isn't. The divorce was inevitable and it was necessary. My anger is a direct result of my ex-wife moving the children far away and with the fact that she treated visitation as an inconvenience for her rather than something important for the children until I moved closer to them.

I would routinely travel 6 hours one way every other weekend to stay at the Super 8 Motel with my son and daughter. Kelly refused to meet me halfway and she refused to work with me on making things easier for me to spend time with the children.

For that, I'll never forgive her — and my daughter seems to feel the same way. Or perhaps Kasey — who is now 17 years old — simply inherited her mother's bitchiness gene. I'm not as rigid as Kelly so Kasey and I have a little better relationship. She also has figured out that on the rare occasions that Daddy says "no" he means it. With Kelly — who was only 19 when Kasey was born — "no" often is the starting point for negotiations.

I believe it is a product of her liberal arts education.

Mark is the same way. He is 5 and I have personally witnessed some of the tantrums he has thrown at his mother. Depending upon her state of mind, Kelly will either give in quickly or slowly. But if the tantrum is severe enough, she will always give in. She was the exact opposite when Kasey was a child.

I would like to think that I am consistent. Mark understands a tantrum around me is a quick way to an evening in his room without whatever he wanted in the first place. Oh, he's tried it a time or two — what kid hasn't tested his limits — but he figured out quickly that Dad doesn't tell him "no" often but when he does it is for a pretty good reason.

But again, I digress. I thought I should point out that I had no problem with the split but only with the manner it was done and the ensuing problems that were created.

Kelly dutifully dropped off the groceries and Christmas presents — and wrapping paper — and even thanked me for helping her out.

"If I could have found someone else to do, I would have," she said.

I fought the urge to tell her that if she wasn't such a bitch she probably would have more friends. It was a fight I barely won.

"So I just drop the stuff off Monday at 5," I said instead. "Are they going to be pissed off I know where their super-secret clubhouse is located?"

Hope Haven thrived on secrecy. Unfortunately, it was necessary. It was a place for women and children who had no place else to go. Their husbands and/or fathers were batterers and more than one had threatened to kill his wife after he was released from jail.