Chapter 3 - My mother had a file on Tamsin
Isolde had been keeping records for eight months.
I learned that from my sister, Maribel Vale, two days later.
Maribel was thirty-seven.
Younger than me.
Lived thirty minutes away.
No children.
Worked in commercial insurance.
She called after Isolde told her:
“Gideon has gone insane.”
Maribel asked me:
“Did you really hit Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
“She hit Tamsin.”
“I heard.”
“Did you know she had a custody file?”
Silence.
Then:
“What?”
Maribel exhaled.
“I thought you knew.”
Of course.
The sentence that ruins families.
I thought you knew.
“What file?”
“Schedules. School pickups. Your travel. Stuff Tamsin says.”
“Why?”
“Mom thinks you’re going to take that regional job.”
There.
My employer, Northline Engineering Services, had offered me a promotion.
Senior regional director.
Salary:
From $168,000 to $205,000.
More bonus.
More travel.
Current:
Two or three overnight trips per month.
Promotion:
Potentially six to eight nights per month during major project cycles.
I had not accepted.
I had discussed it with Isolde.
Because she watched Tamsin.
Because I was stupid enough to treat regular childcare as co-parenting.
Then Maribel said:
“Mom thinks if you take it, Tamsin should stay with her during the week.”
“I never agreed.”
“I know.”
“Did she file something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she hire someone?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A family-care consultant.”
Not lawyer?
“Both, I think.”
There.
Then the food.
“Did you know she was restricting Tamsin’s meals?”
“No.”
“Did Mom ever say Tamsin has a problem with food?”
“She says she begs for seconds and snacks when she’s upset.”
My stomach turned.
Seven-year-olds ask for snacks.
Could emotional eating exist?
Maybe.
But not Isolde’s diagnosis.
Then:
“She says Tamsin gets hysterical when told no.”
“Have you seen it?”
Maribel hesitated.
“One time.”
“What happened?”
“Mom took away dessert.”
“Why?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did Tamsin scream?”
“She cried.”
There.
The word hysterical belonged to Isolde.
The behavior belonged to a seven-year-old.
Then Maribel said:
“Mom has videos.”
Of course.
Not audio.
Videos.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“She showed you?”
“Three.”
“What did they show?”
“Tamsin crying at dinner. One after you missed a school thing. One when Mom told her she couldn’t call you until she finished homework.”
“Did you ask what happened before?”
“No.”
Honest.
Then:
“Do you believe I’m neglecting her?”
“No.”
“Do you think I work too much?”
“Yes.”
That hurt because it was true enough to matter.
Then she said:
May you like
“Gideon, Mom thinks being right gives her ownership.”
That was the first useful sentence anybody gave me.
