Learning to Cry by Christopher C. Payne

sleeping quarters on the floor. It took me a while to recover, but new beginnings are all about fresh starts. You just had to keep things in perspective.
    Melissa arrived home from Washington, D.C., to a house of women. She didn’t think a lot about my not being there to greet her, but I later found out how sad she was that I could not share in her stories. At the time she left out the part about smoking pot, but shared that with me later when the two of us had one of our private conversations. She shared a lot with me. I would counsel her the best I could, caution her about the path she was choosing, but those talks were not about her getting punished. The talks were a time where she could share her feelings with no retribution.
    She couldn’t have those kinds of talks with Cheryl. Her mother was excellent with science projects, helping organize events, English papers, hauling the kids down to the local gymnastics class or setting up play dates. She couldn’t discuss topics of a delicate nature without her feelings taking over and her anger being displayed. As Melissa got older I would often say that Cheryl and I could help guide her down the right path, we could tell her about the consequences, but in the end we could no longer control her. If teenagers want to drink, they will drink. If they want to do drugs, they will figure out a way.
    I am not sure my ex-wife really ever understood the dynamics of having a rebellious teenager. Damn, I didn’t understand it most of the time, as well. Experimentation is one thing, putting yourself in danger for no good reason, never makes any sense. I guess that is why they are teenagers. All you can do is cross your fingers and hope they make it out unscathed. It sounds so trivial to say at this point. I question myself, I question Cheryl. Is she to blame, am I at fault, are both of us or neither of us? I keep asking these questions over and over in my head. It feels, at times, the words beating against my skull will explode with atomic force.  Not even my sleep is restful anymore.
    The plan was to gather our three children together, and I would meet them all at the house. We were to sit down as a team and present to them our plan for splitting up and getting a divorce. We still both loved the children, but we would not be doing so as a married couple. Our marriage was over, and our family as a single unit was not to be. We had discussed this several times, we rehearsed what to say, and we had a plan. Plans are only as good as the paper they are written on. Paper today just isn’t of the same quality as it was a few years ago.
    When I arrived they were watching “Friends” in what was now my old bedroom. I entered the room and asked if we were ready to talk. The girls were all excited to see me, jumping up and down yelling, “Daddy, we missed you!”
    I asked my bitter historical partner if she were ready, and her response has been burned into my memory for all eternity. “This is your show, say what you want,” she muttered and went back to watching “Friends.”
    I realize she was bitter. We were both bitter. I think she blamed me for what was happening and maybe rightfully so. Still, I will never be able to forgive her for that night and how it affected the kids.
    I have moved on, but to this day, that is a moment in my life that stirs up anger inside me every time I think of it. I talked to the kids while she watched TV. She finally did inject some comments, but by then the kids were all crying, and Melissa had left the room. I didn’t see Melissa again for a few months. She shut down after that. Refused to see me and refused to acknowledge the change in her life.
    Timing in life is everything. An old friend of mine (I didn’t get many friends in the divorce) once told me the reason he didn’t like professional basketball is all the games come down to the last few seconds. The first three quarters plus most of the fourth quarter is meaningless -- unless it is a blowout,