2. Stay at home Dad!

I was angry. I wanted out. I had to leave her—what other choice did I have? Stay and be the emotional punching bag in this boxing ring of a marriage while the kids watched their dad bleed on the mat? Fuck calling the therapist; I’m getting a lawyer.

Or am I? Fuck, where do we draw the line? How much do you forgive? Do you stay together and try to work it out for the children? Or does that just allow them to grow up with unhappy parents who model a dysfunctional relationship in front of them. Can trust ever be rebuilt? This is a hell of a dichotomy. When you read about celebrities who stay together after being caught cheating you always say - leave that asshole. But when you have kids and a life built together, it's not that simple.

How do you even begin to forgive such behavior - the act itself is so fucked up! But the attitude afterwards; complete madness, she's gone mad. I can't leave someone who is struggling psychologically - for better or worse you vowed.

But the aftertaste of Bryan’s… lingered, it's a flavour with such depth. They say still waters run deep, but the oozing cream of… well that cuts deeper. 

I remember the first course at a Two Michelin Star restaurant some years ago; seafood chowder. A wet ocean rock with seaweed was placed on the table, and a headset playing sounds of the ocean was put upon our heads as the bowl was served. The meal imprinted on my brain. Head chef Kate and sous chef Bryan had worked together on a dish that had far surpassed the experience of said seafood chowder - though the texture was somewhat similar. 

9 a.m. couldn’t come fast enough. Thank God I didn’t have to work—I couldn’t. No visa. We were all here on her work visa. I was the stay-at-home parent, with a live-in nanny to help. I needed it, since she was hardly ever home. Always “working late.” Or so she said.

I pulled up the driveway in our oversized American SUV. The kind of car the president would ride in—exactly what she wanted. Sofia, the cleaner, was in the kitchen—our undocumented cleaner, matching the car and the massive, empty house I walked into.

“Hola, Mr. Matt! All good?” she called out.

“Sí, Sofia. Perfecto.”

It hit me. None of this was my life. This was hers. The Malibu mansion, the presidential SUV, the nanny, the cleaner, the... stay-at-home dad. I was just a character in her dream. I grew up a humble dairy farmer, I wanted simple. I should’ve been grateful—this is what everyone dreams of, no 9-to-5, I could’ve spent my days surfing Malibu. But wait—those were her words. Damn it, she’s in my head now.

All I could think about was last night. How did I get here? Was this my fault? Should I apologise? Wait. NO. I was mad at her. I was going to call a lawyer. This wasn’t sudden. For 18 months, she’d been out late most nights for “work drinks,” and when she wasn’t in “home”, she was in New York. Oh, and guess who was with her in New York last week? “Work training.” (Her PA later found out only one hotel room was paid for.)

9:22 a.m.—I’m on Google, frantically searching for family lawyers. Cold sweat, hands shaking. I spent the day in a blur, talking to every California lawyer who’d give me five minutes. Same answer, over and over: “Nothing we can do. You’re not citizens, and you haven’t been here for six months. You’ll have to wait.” Too late to call New Zealand or Australian lawyers now—tomorrow’s battle. We were both from NZ, lived in Australia before she dragged us here. Dragged here by my umbilical cord.

That evening, I focused on the kids. It was like every other evening for the past 18 months—just me and them. “Where’s Mom?” they’d ask. “Working,” I used to say. Now? “Working,” I’d lie. We’d been living her lie. To the world, we were the picture-perfect family with the successful woman at the head of the table. But the kids and I? We were staring at an empty chair. She was getting ahead in her career and getting head elsewhere. The kids knew the nanny better than their own mother. She didn’t come home that night. No call, no text.

As I read The Wonky Donkey to Curren that night it dawned on me, she had never read them a bedtime story. Not once, ever. I loved reading to the kids so I didn't mind, but thought how sad that was. I'd bring it up sometimes, shed lash out,  yell at me; “Fuck you Matt I work hard for this family, this business doesnt run itself-bla bla bla” I'd say, “we don't have to live in such a big house etc…” “You are so fucking ungrateful Matt bla bla bla - i have work to do” and scuttle off the bedroom laptop and wine in hand.

Thank god weed was legal in California, cause i was wired to say the least. As soon as the kids were asleep I inhaled. Escaped. 

The next day was spent talking to New Zealand and Australian lawyers. Nothing they can do either as we don't live there anymore. Cut and Dry

From a legal perspective I was fucked. Nothing I can do, she has the visa, she has the money, she has all the power. And clearly she was going to do whatever she wanted with it. 

I called back the most helpful Californian lawyer I had spoken with the day before, he said to call him back once I spoke to NZ and Aus attorney’s. A good lawyer is kind of like a therapist. Self awareness is gained, not psychologically (though it is cathartic) but practically and legally. 

He summed it up; “You will have to wait till we have been in CA for 6 months before you can do anything, and even then it's tricky because you are here on her visa. She could file for divorce and you could be deported, the kids would stay here with her, you would have to go back home. The kids stay here with her, and you get shipped back. I think your Aussie shrink was right, you should have got a lawyer and stayed. It's too late now so you have to put up with the situation, play it cool, focus on your kids. Good luck my friend”

FARK!!

The therapist, I think I'll give him a call now…