Melissa, Warrior Mom

One day, I couldn’t fake it anymore. I had enough of plastered-on smiles by kids who had just been throwing tantrums. Couldn’t stand the amount of cleaning I had to do every single day just so the house looked immaculate in photos. I was done. I logged out of my blog, Happy Home with Melissa Henderson. Opened a new account: Mommy Blog: The Terrifying Truths.

My first post about the dishes.

“March 3, 20--

“Picture: Dishes piled high in the sink.

“I’m so tired of all the blogs on here that present perfect homes. They don’t talk about the stress. They don’t talk about the rampant alcoholism. They don’t talk about resentment. I want to.

“The picture you see above? That’s my sink right now. Yep. Haven’t done dishes in two days. Don’t really care right now. I’m not gonna wash them until tomorrow. Maybe. Or I’ll have my husband do it. He never helps with cleaning. Just comes home, sits on his ass, drinks a beer, and watches TV. Real 1950s dynamic in this household.

“Dishes are just the tip of the iceberg. We have five children, ages 14 down to 4. The amount of cleaning and laundry I do daily is a full-time job. My eldest tries to help, bless his heart. Still can’t fold a pair of jeans to save his life. I think he’s gay, but he won’t say anything to us about it. My husband might actually disown him if he is.

“My youngest, my one girl, is about to start kindergarten. At least some of the year I’ll have the house to myself. The quiet can’t come soon enough. That makes it sound like I don’t love my kids. I do. Fiercely. Doesn’t make them perfect little angels, though. They’re not. My youngest boy still can’t figure out how to pee into the toilet bowl.

“That’s all I have to say for today. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow. Or not.”

I titled the post, “Mother Dearest? Mother TIRED!” Left a vague signature at the bottom of the page:

“Thanks for reading!

“One tired mommy.”

Posted it. Turned off the computer, grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, and poured a glass of sauvignon blanc (I’m such a rebel! No chardonnay for this girlie) and downed it. Poured another. Ended up ordering Chinese for dinner. Mike was pissed. Threatened to leave if I didn’t clean the dishes. I told him to get me the fucking dishwasher working. He said he’d call someone tomorrow.

We didn’t usually fight like that. Might have scared the kids. I told them all I was sorry, that I still loved them. Sometimes people argued and yelled at each other. That was a normal part of life. Sometime around midnight, I turned the computer back on and checked my new blog. Did a double-take.

One hundred fifty comments. Dozens of shares. Three hundred seventy-two followers. Off of one post. My old blog never did numbers like this. I read through the comments.

Most were kind.

“Go girl go!”

“Your husband sounds like a man-child. Divorce. Him.”

Some were not.

“Praying for your son. F--- rot in hell!”

“Clean the kitchen, bitch.”

Wow.

I was gonna write another post tomorrow. Leaving the computer on, I slipped into bed with Mike. He was snoring away already. Settled in, turned my back to him, and fell asleep.

My eyes were crusty when I woke up. Must have cried. Got breakfast made. Did some dishes after glaring at my husband until he called someone to come fix the dishwasher. Boys got ready for school. My oldest wore a rainbow T-shirt. He told me it meant something. I asked what it was.

“You already know, Mom. I read your new blog. You left it open on the computer.”

That caught me by surprise. Didn’t even know the kid got on the computer this morning.

“Did you read any of the comments?”

“Some. I stopped when I read the word ‘f---’. That’s not a nice word.”

I shook my head, pulled him into my arms, and told him I loved him. The top of his head didn’t quite fit under my chin anymore. That made me a little sad.

“Don’t tell Dad, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“And maybe hide your new blog from him?”

I looked at my son. “Your dad? On a computer? Have you met him?”

We chortled at the joke.

I wrote about that in my blog that day. Got one thousand new followers, most of them from the LGBTQ+ community. Those comments were far more encouraging.

“I wish I had a mom like you!”

“My dad was the same way. He died last year. Thank you for the good tears this morning.”

“Your son is so lucky. Might want to rethink his dad…”

Two days in a row, people were pointing out what was between the lines. My husband. He was a problem. Could I even afford a divorce? I’d have to get a job again. Hadn’t worked in five years. Spent all my time on the blog. Made a little money from that, but not enough to even justify a coffee shop run once a week.

I heard a ping, another comment.

“Tell us if you need anything. Your son has a good mama. We need more people like you.”

My chest heaved as a sob overtook me. These people were all being so kind to me. They didn’t have to. I didn’t know any of them, and yet I felt like I had found a support group. Mommy blogging had become so lonely for me. Solitary. Just me and the kids, occasionally my husband when he was in a decent mood.

I called my mother. Told her everything (except about my son; that was his to tell—though I did already tell the whole internet, but that’s different, right?). Said she and dad would be here tomorrow, first flight in the morning. I didn’t need to worry about getting them from the airport. They would manage.

That was my mom. Just showing up whenever I needed support. She’d never been the biggest fan of Mike, but tolerated him because I loved… Nope, because I tolerated him. I remember when I thought out loud. My daughter was at the table eating spaghetti. She asked me what it meant. I told her to eat her food.

Maybe I shouldn’t have avoided answering her question, but I wasn’t ready to explain what was about to happen. At least not to a four-year-old.

On my blog that day, I told my now three thousand followers what I was planning in just one sentence:

“Tomorrow, I’m telling him we’re getting a divorce.”

Changed the signature too: Going from Mommy to Mom.

Twenty thousand people either liked, commented, or shared that. My inbox got flooded with collaboration requests from brands. Maybe I wouldn’t have to work?

I told the kids Nanny and Pops were coming tomorrow. My husband asked when we decided that. Told him we had talked earlier, and they just wanted to come for a few days. His shoulders tensed as he sipped his beer. Went back to watching the football game.

Before my son went to bed, I pulled him outside on the balcony. Told him we should have some hot chocolate together. My other kids begged to join. I told them this was a just-me-and-him thing, and I promised I would do something similar with the rest of them. That appeased them, though my youngest son demanded I take him to the trampoline park. I told him I would consider it.

We watched the stars for a bit before my son spoke. “Mom, why are they coming?”

Could keep it from a four-year-old, but this kid deserved to know. “I’m leaving your father.”

“Thank god.”

Well… That was unexpected. I studied him for a moment. He looked less like Mike (burly, dark hair) and more like me (skinny, blonde). Guess he had my senses too.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t love Dad. I don’t think you ever loved him.”

Jesus, kid. “I loved him once. A long time ago.”

“When did you stop?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Maybe it was after my daughter was born, when he didn’t even come to the hospital for her birth. Eight hours of labor, and all he did was drop me off and leave. Or maybe it was when he started forgetting the important dates, like his own children’s birthdays and our wedding anniversary.

“I don’t know.”

“Is it because of me?” His voice sounded so small, squeaking from puberty.

I was honest. “Yes, sort of, but not because of who you are.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You told me your truth, or you at least confirmed my guess, and that opened my eyes. To everything.”

“This is a weird way to come out of the closet,” he whispered.

I chuckled and held out my hand. He took it. It was smooth, not yet ruined by the years. “It is, isn’t it? I’m going to be here for you, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” We lapsed into silence, the slurp of hot chocolate the only sound in the cool night air. We finished our drinks, set them in the sink inside, and shooed him off to bed.

“Do I have to tell Nanny and Pops?” he asked before shutting his bedroom door.

“Only if you want to.”

I didn’t sleep that night. Mike woke and gave me a cold look while he packed his things to leave. I barely noticed when he slammed the door shut. The kids woke and got themselves ready. I just sat at the table, sipping coffee. I wanted the open bottle of wine in the fridge, but I needed to make a different choice. When they were gone, and my daughter was playing in her room, I went to the computer.

I told the blog about my parents, the conversation with my son, and my plans. Confessed I was scared. How would Mike react? Where would we go? What about money? All the thoughts that had been cycling through my head since I started this new blog. I stared at the screen for a long time after posting, zoning out. The colors swirled in my vision then popped when I heard a ping. Someone had sent me a private message.

I opened it, and read, “I’ve been reading your old blog for years (kinda figured it out from the dishes in your sink—sorry!) and latched on as soon as you started this one. A few of us who’ve been following you for years all messaged each other, and we started collecting money to help you with the divorce. If you can let me know the best way to get it to you, I’d like to send it over. You’re the mom I wish I’d had when I was fourteen. ~Justin.”

I left it on read as I heard my mom come into the house, calling for me. My daughter squealed and zipped up to her, giggling, “Hi Nanny!” My mom holds her in one arm as she and my dad give me hugs.

She has only one question for me: “Should we start packing now?”

I shook my head, wiping tears from my eyes. This was my home. Mike treated it like a hotel. The day was a blur. The boys came home. My eldest gave me a look and then told everyone he had something he needed to say.

“I’m gay.”

No melodrama from this kid. Ever. My dad looked a little shell-shocked from the revelation. Walked up to him, pulled him into a hug, and said something I’d never heard.

“I had a brother until I was 17. He killed himself after my dad found him with another boy. I love you, okay? That’s never gonna change.”

That brought tears from all of us. Dad had a brother. Would he have accepted his brother, too?

“I kept it to myself for years. Didn’t want to upset my own father. The silence became routine,” he told me when I asked him about it later.

That statement slammed into me. The silence became routine. I had been doing the same for years. Swallowing down what I wanted for the sake of the kids and Mike. Who even was I anymore?

My fingers trembled when I pulled up Mike’s name in the phone. I didn’t have him listed as anything cutesy in my phone, no “Hubba hubby” or “Hot stuff.” Just Mike Henderson. I pressed dial. It rang. He picked up.

“What?” He sounded annoyed, maybe a tad angry.

“Don’t come home tonight. Find somewhere else to stay.”

“What does that mean?” His tone was sharper.

“It means I’m done, Mike. We’re over. I’m contacting a lawyer tomorrow.”

“I need my clothes, Mel.”

“Melissa.”

“What?”

“You can call me Melissa.”

“Fuck you, Mel, Melissa, what the fuck ever, I need my fucking clothes.”

“Go buy some. I’ll have all your shit packed and on the porch. You can get it in the morning.”

“No. I’m coming home tonight. We’re gonna talk about this.”

“I will call the police if you come.”

“Fuck, Mel. Don’t do this right now. I’m at a fucking client’s house.”

“Bye, Mike.”

I flung the phone down on the couch. Let myself break down. My mom held me. Asked if I wanted wine. I shook my head. Mike didn’t show up that night. Grumbled angrily when he got his things the next morning. Didn’t try to come in, didn’t ask to see the kids, just grabbed his things and left.

That was a year ago. We’re divorced now. He signed away his parental rights, told the judge that if I was done with him, then he was done with everything. Fucking bastard. The kids were devastated at first, but they’ve gotten used to his absence. My daughter is in kindergarten now, and my eldest brings his boyfriend around all the time. Doors stay open, he’s been firmly told. He complies. His boyfriend is here several nights a week. Nice kid. Knows how to fold jeans.

My parents moved into the house next door when it went up for sale. Said they wanted to be closer to the kids. I think they just wanted to be there in case something happened. It hasn’t. Mike hasn’t called or texted Hasn’t even emailed. Just a check in the mail every month with child support.

If you’ve been following this saga since I started this blog, thank you for being here. If you’re new, welcome. It’s a doozy. To all the members of the LGBTQ+ community who raised money to help us, we are eternally grateful. You raised too much, and my son finally decided where he wanted to donate the rest. The picture below is of him handing a check over to a homeless shelter for at-risk LGBTQ+ youth. We volunteer there every weekend.

Love you all,

Melissa, Warrior Mom