Editor’s note: The Lovefraud author Eleanor Cowan wants to educate survivors of narcissistic abuse into recognizing how their own actions may contribute to their misery. She is writing a collection of true stories called, “Impactful Stories for Stubborn Codependents.” Eleanor’s biographical book is called, “A History of a Pedophile’s Wife.”
Who’s Responsible for This?
By Eleanor Cowan
“You’ve never snapped at me before, Mia,” said her post-surgery patient, a long-distance trucker anxious to be back on the road. “My team’s heading to my dreamed-of Alaska next week. I so want to be with them,” he pleaded, frustrated that Nurse Mia declined to sign his discharge papers.
“Let’s not jump the gun now,” she replied. “You’re still vulnerable. You’re not fully healed.”
His shoulders slumped, maybe in relief. “Act in haste, repent at leisure, right, Mia?” he smiled.
Mia smiled back. A competent nurse for ten years now, she took pride in caring well for her patients—and her family. Once four, then three, they were now four again.
Her youngest, Carlie, was thrilled to soon join peewee football at last, and happy that his dad, Phil, had moved back home. Her older son, Junior, wasn’t so sure. He’d seen the full enchilada—the shouting, the missing money, Dad’s secretive phone calls, the glass shattering against the brick fireplace, and the uneasy truces that followed.
Two years earlier, Junior had felt only relief when Mia changed the locks. Dad out. Peace in. Junior invited his friends home once again, and he looked out for his little brother.
A year after their separation, Phil’s counsellor sent Mia an email, asking if he might call or drop by. After two such calls, Mia agreed to meet the counsellor at her office, not at home. There, he said that Phil had asked him to speak on his behalf about the possibility of reconciliation.
“Things are calm now,” Mia responded, adding, “I don’t want to rock the boat.” Taking his leave respectfully, the counsellor asked if he might call again in ten months, and Mia nodded. She felt guilty that her sons had no father. She’d always dreamed of a happy family. Could she ever love Phil again? She wasn’t sure.
Nearly a year later, just before the holidays, the counsellor called again with yet another excellent report about the steadfast progress of Phil, who sought an appointment with Mia. Still uncertain, still sorting through the drama she’d suffered, Mia caught her breath when a radiant new version of Phil appeared with his counsellor at her office. Phil quietly asked for one more final chance. “We’re still a family, Mia,” he said gently. “I love you and our sons so much. Please give me a last chance to be the husband and father our family deserves.”
Despite her anxiety, despite a close girlfriend’s warning, Mia agreed to trust both the counsellor and Phil, once again.
It felt wonderful—home-cooked suppers, family card nights, little outings all together and financial contributions too. Phil suggested they watch a TV series and talk about it afterward. The evening Junior brought friends home for dinner sealed it in Mia’s mind: Everything really must be okay now.
That same evening, after refusing to discharge her still-fragile patient, Mia drove home proud of her sound judgment. “He has to be 100% before I sign on the dotted line,” she reassured herself.
She beeped at her son, Carlie, skateboarding on the driveway, to shuffle aside a little more. Parking inside the garage, and hungry, Mia wondered if dinner was underway. Inside, though, the kitchen lights were off.
Tracking the dim hallway light to the den, Mia found Phil sprawled on the couch, giggling seductively into his phone. Credit cards and pills littered the coffee table.
Stunned, Mia ran. Grabbing her keys, she jumped into the car, slammed it into reverse, and flew down the driveway.
She heard the screams first.
As Carlie was loaded into the ambulance, both legs shattered—no football for him ever again—the police officer, fighting for calm, faced Mia, “Who is responsible for this? Please. Tell me who.”
