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It's debilitating to know that after years of pretending you do, you find out that you do not, in fact, have the killer instinct.

I could hear static-filtered Richie babble from the baby monitor as the DVD player spit Tyler Perry's Daddy's Little Girls onto the TV screen. Before I could say out loud, "Every time I see something to do with dad's, I feel like crying," the tears came. Even though the muscles of my faces contracted tightly, even though I couldn't breathe at all, the tears came. I couldn't even think about how ridiculous I must have seemed crying through the preview to a movie I have never seen. For the seconds before I could actually stop crying, my mind was bludgeoned by emotions. It isn't about loving Nathan or not, being loved or rejected. It's about Richie. When did the psychological composition of humanity change so much that any one person could find it acceptable, even if just within themselves, to abandon a child? His own child.

In all our terse correspondance, Nathan never asked after Richie. His final excuse was that he simply did not know "the baby". Am I odd to find it disheartening that Nathan referred to Richie as "the baby"? Or naive in my ignorance of his paternal detachment?

To the day, it has been three weeks. I am like an addict, or an obsessive compulsive. What's the difference? What matters is that I have not responded to Nathan since his nasty message on Valen-effing-tine's Day. Actually, I have not sent him anything since the message I wrote him the week before that. So, technically it's four weeks.

Four weeks.