It started with a quarrel – Part 1

Last weekend started with a terrible quarrel and I’m the one who started it. Worse, it was by phone so there was no conciliating body language and when I start it keep on going.

Princess and I have our rucksacks and we have both managed to pack our past without too much loose ends.

The few disputes we have are always during a phone call and always about the same topic and always, I’m sorry to say, my fault. Hell, I never said I was perfect.

To use a euphemism, our main loose ends are what other people would describe as kids.
I have two kids and Princess has three times as much and 99% of them are girls and they come in all sorts, aged between 13 and 22.

Princess and I are both divorced but the father of her kids was killed almost two years ago in a terrible car accident. For her kids this is unfinished business, there are so much issues, they have to coop with the divorce, the death of their father. Ingredients for a novel Dostoyevsky could have written with great panache.

I am aware of their grief, their feelings of being lost. Trust me. I lost my dad 40 years ago and although I know that I’m idolizing this man when I look at one of the few photographs I have of him, it still hurts. Deep down I know I have only good recollections of this man, memories covered with the soft golden patina of time in which everything is healed.

So our quarrels are about the kids.

Princess has the keys to my apartment, she has space in my, no, our bathroom cabinet and in the chest of drawers in our bedroom. She sleeps over one night a week at my place, we end the week, on Sunday, together and because I have Little A. only two weekends a month, we enjoy lots of privacy and we do have more quality time as a couple than most people I know.
That’s okay, no?

Yet sometimes something pinches me viciously in the balls and I get mad. Fuck, I have no idea how the interior of her house looks like. I have never slept in her bed; I have never held her in my arms in front of her fireplace nor have I been able to help her gardening or whatever couples do. Never showered at her place.

50% of her kids are against their mother’s relation and the house they live in is their safe haven and they won’t accept me entering this space.
They don’t know who I am, they have seen me briefly, but their home is something in which their father is still present. I must respect this but boy; sometimes this is so hard as I wish to be a full-time partner for Princess.
To keep up the math 98% of the time I understand this, and I am aware we, Princess and I, are privileged as we have complete privacy at my place. I can whip her and nobody will be alarmed by the sound of leather on bare flesh.
No one will be alarmed when she screams ‘please Milord, hurt me more.’

It comes with a price though and I’m very happy to pay.
I’m alone this Xmas evening, as my presence in her family would only create anger and they would not understand and they would not enjoy a real Xmas.

99% of the time I understand this.

Sometimes I get mad.

I’m so sorry Princess when I hurt you. Emotionally that is.
I love you more that I can express in words or body language.
Sometimes I can be a stupid jerk.

Forgive me, Princess, for these few false dissonants in our relationship.


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