Work is crazy, blah blah blah.

My house got struck again by a storm, and I’m in contractor hell. Blah blah blah.

Superman is Superman. Blah blah blah.

Martian is Martian. Blah blah blah.

The “father” of Comic Boy… tonight, is my problem.

13 years ago, I left Comic Boy’s father due to a perfect storm of abuse and fear. I thought he was going to kill me. His eyes said I was going to die. Maybe I was being dramatic, maybe it was true, but, I left him, taking our 15-month old child into the unknown after a look he gave me, after having things thrown at me, after having a wall punched next to my head.

It was a choice of survival, one I regretted, but knew was the best decision.

I talked to counselors. I followed the advice of “say nothing until he’s ready.”

I never said a word. Only “we didn’t stop fighting.”

Then… Comic Boy started asking questions in the past few months, different questions than the norm,  sprinkled with accusations that I left his dad for Martian and I was, in essence, a gold digging whore.

I want to mention that Martian, when we met, was an NCO in the Air Force. Tons of gold there, let me tell you. Also, it was circumstance, not money, that led me into that particular relationship.

So, I gave my side of things, tempered with my inability to mention drugs or abortion, and how that killed my soul. Twice. I followed the advice, mostly because I cannot look my son in the face and tell him I killed his two other siblings. Something his father would never regret, and something I will hate myself forever for doing.

Comic Boy, being the 14 year old bad ass he is, confronted his father, with the tidbits I did tell him.

His father, afterward, has said that Comic Boy said a lot of things that hurt him, and he would need time to get over it.

Comic Boy’s father is 37. Comic Boy is 14. Do the math.

Tonight, T asked his father for the name of his stepsister from his dad’s marriage right after ours.

T’s dad said, “I’m in class right now, and I don’t owe you anything.”

Of everything in my world that is fucked up and going wrong… how can he hurt his own child like that? Should I have shut up and not said anything? When IS the right time to reveal facts, and to what end? I could have been the gold-digging whore forever if it spared one tear from that boy.

As T’s grandmother said, this is the first Xmas that she won’t see him since he was born. His dad has made no effort to schedule visitation over his winter break. He has, in all sense of the word, abandoned Comic Boy. And, my boy is hurting, hard. This beautiful, delicate, artistic, funny, amazing being is being shit on by the same person who shit on me.

And… I don’t know what to do.

What should I do?