I remember so much more than the story she told me about her ex-husband. The time and place became interlocked with the feeling of shame, even second hand shame. In a strange way, her feelings became my feelings. Sharing that singular hurt did make it less of a wound and did allow her to put it where it belonged, deep away.
She was taking her, and his, young child to the store for some ice cream when they ran into him and his new wife. He didn't even look at his son, couldn't look at him. Looking at him would mean that he was responsible for him. It was better in his own mind to treat him as a forgotten mistake. I know she wanted to hold her son up and force some kind of acknowledgement, make a wild scene that would somehow get a small amount of attention. That was the point though, that small bit of sight. Which is exactly why she didn't do that. Even though it hurt a lot she understood that having the son and not the father was a best result that could be hoped for.
She told me about him because, even at that time, she knew how things were going to end. The unspoken plea in the story was not to be as bad as this. And of course things didn't end as bad as that. How could they?
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