The aftershocks of the battle between Alex and me didn’t just hit the two of us. They rippled outward, catching people who had nothing to do with the fight but were pulled into the fray anyway.
One of them was sweet Clair — Alex’s four‑year‑old daughter. I loved that little girl like my own. I’d known her since she was two, and I had the privilege of watching her grow while we lived together. Most days, I was the one caring for her while her mother ran errands she “couldn’t” take her daughter to. Like Rowan, Clair was pure innocence. Untouched by the cruelty of the world. At least not yet.
We cuddled, played games, sang, danced. Our favorite was indoor soccer — goals set up on either end of the upstairs living area, the two of us kicking balls at each other and laughing like idiots. We’d ride the battery‑operated scooters around the house, chasing each other and crashing into cupboards without a care in the world. She called me “Ma.” She’d stand at the top of the stairs and yell for me whenever she needed something.
She and Rowan were great friends too. I’d often find them sharing a blanket, watching TV, perfectly content in their own little bubble. Louise, her older sister, came on weekends. We didn’t have the same bond, but she was a good kid. They both were.
Their father, Jason, was doing everything he could to protect them. He was frustrated with Alex’s drinking and drug use — and rightfully so. He was unemployed and dealing with his own mental health struggles, but he was an amazing father. Far more deserving of the title than Alex ever was. She had seven children in total. Four had already been taken and placed in foster care. One had passed away shortly after birth. That left two still under her care, and it was only a matter of time before she lost them too. But that wasn’t my battle. My concern was the girls — and Jason. I spent whatever extra money I had on gifts and treats for them, trying to give them something normal, something soft.
When things between Alex and me finally exploded, I didn’t just lose a place to live. I lost Clair. I lost Louise. I lost Jason. I lost the tiny, chaotic, joyful moments that made the rest of that house bearable.
I still think about them. Quietly. From a distance. I hope they’re okay. I hope their mother’s addictions didn’t swallow them whole. I hope the innocence I saw in them wasn’t just a temporary flicker.
And I hope that letting them go — as much as it broke me — was still the right thing.
Still wondering, still wishing them well,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 