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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Out with the old and out with the new
Feminism of every stripe has failed. It's time for a gender equality movement.
By Cathy Young
[01/26/00]

Going for the perfect high
Choosing a high school was a lot easier when you didn't get to choose.
By Merle Kessler
[01/27/00]

Melissa, David and me
Why does lesbian motherhood need the blessing of a "father"?
By Laurie Essig
[01/28/00]

"Beat the Biological Clock"
I've seen the future and it is a televised reproductive hootenanny.
By Dorothy Nixon
[01/28/00]

Is this child pornography?
American photo labs are arresting parents as child pornographers for taking pictures of their kids in the bath.
By James R. Kincaid
[01/31/00]

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But suddenly Tom began disappearing, and then he announced that he wanted a divorce. There wasn't anyone else, he said, he was just completely unhappy and wanted me gone. I was devastated. For weeks, I begged and pleaded for a reason, an excuse, for anything that might help me stay this marital execution, but he stayed silent.

I begged him to go to counseling with me and he refused. I asked his sister what was going on, I corralled his friends, but no one seemed to know anything‚ or if they did, like Tom, they weren't talking.

Finally, because there was nothing else to do, I left, taking up what I hoped was temporary residence in New York and counting on my absence to make my husband's heart grow fonder. Tom called me every week to see how I was. And although he still talked about divorce, he never served me with papers, and because I ached to get back together, I never got a lawyer, either.

In the meantime, I tried to be happy. I sold a novel. I found new friends, including a man who began to love me, and after a while, to my astonishment, I began to care about him, too. But no matter how good things were, no matter how many months had gone by, I couldn't seem to commit to him; I couldn't cut the cord with Tom.

Not until one night when the phone rang, and the "other woman" called me for help.

I'll call her Stella. She was soft-spoken, and the first thing she said on the phone was, "I've been seeing your husband since before you were married." She said her relationship with Tom was floundering and she was terrified that he was thinking about getting back together with me. Was this true? Was I still in contact with Tom? Had he ever mentioned her to me?

I was astonished by her audacity. What kind of a woman calls the woman she's betraying to ask for advice? Was she crazy? Or just sadistic? I wanted to bang the phone down on her. I wanted to curse at her and then call Tom and curse him. But more than that, more than anything, I was riveted. I wanted to know more. And only she could tell me.

"He doesn't tell me anything," she blurted. "He'd kill me if he knew I called you. But I'm desperate. And you're the only person who can help me."

"I was about to say the same thing," I said.

For three weeks, nearly every night, Stella and I talked for hours. We started at the beginning, telling each other how our relationships with Tom began, the things we did, the way we talked and fought and even made love. We told each other everything, like confessions, filling in the gaps in each other's histories, providing context, explanation and time lines. We were busy helping each other to figure out our lives with Tom.

"Was Tom with you all the time when you first met?" Stella asked me. "And then did it abruptly taper off?" "It did!" I felt a sudden shock of relief. It wasn't just me. It happened with another woman, too. Tom, she told me, had met her while buying a present for me. He had talked to her about nothing but me, and then had called home right in front of her to ask me what color I liked, and when I said I didn't need clothes, he had hung up, furious.

"He thought you were rejecting him by rejecting his gift. He asked me to lunch right after," Stella told me. "That's how it began. And then every single day after that, he came to see me. He called me 60 times a day. And now, all a sudden, he doesn't."

I thought of all the times Tom had been late coming home. I remembered a business trip he had taken to California. "California!" Stella cried. "He was with me! Any trip, any late night‚ we were together." I felt a flash flood of anger, of shame.

"How could you do this to another woman?" I cried. "He was married."

Stella sighed. "He said the marriage was over. He said you didn't appreciate or understand him."

"Why didn't he ever tell me any of this?" I said, astonished.

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