Medea

Medea

He calls me that, when he calls me anything at all. Medea; the one who killed her children to get revenge on the husband. Only I didn’t kill my children. They’re still very much alive. But not to him. No, not to him, never to him. To him they’re dead.

It started when we split up. The girls were young then, too young to remember what he had done to us, to me. I won’t go into detail of what he did now, I’ll do that later. But that’s when it started.

I, of course, got the usual questions: “Where’s Daddy, Mummy?” and “When’s Daddy coming home?” I answered how every mother answers, who doesn’t want their kids to be hurt. “Soon honey, soon.”

But, inevitably, I had to tell them the truth. I remember that day.

It was a perfect, sunny day. You know the ones; kids play in the street and mothers sit in one lawn on deck chairs drinking lemonade or wine, and fathers cut the grass or play ball games with the sons.

Perfect day for the truth.

I started with the small things, but as I continued talking to the girls, more things came out, some I didn’t mean to tell them till they were older. But I told them and I don’t regret it. I tried not to colour everything I said. “Your father still loves you two, it’s just Mummy and Daddy didn’t love each other.”

They saw him, at first. But it was hard seeing him with that floozy. I know I shouldn’t have let him hire that new assistant without inviting her for dinner, but I trusted him not to do it. Well we know how that went.

Really, it was his fault that the girls turned on him; he was besotted with his new ‘little princess’. He made the mistake of calling me names. I was the only constant they had, the only stability for them, especially since he was jetting off all over the world on this dig, or that conference, so he never really had time to be a father. I once tried the “you should be proud of your Dad, he’s so intelligent and is doing this for your future.” They soon saw through this, though. “If Dad can’t be bothered to call us or send us an email or a card, then we won’t bother with him,” they told me.

And so it was. The girls broke contact with him, changed their mobile numbers, email addresses, everything. Avoided seeing him, and ignored him when he came round.

He got a court order to see them and that’s when the girls became aggressive.

After the first court-ordained visitation, he dropped them off and took me aside. “You’re bloody Medea,” he said. I looked at him and blinked. He rolled his eyes at me and commented on my education. He left soon after that and I googled Medea and sat seething. He accused me of killing them? I didn’t get it at first. After the second visit, I asked him to explain, he told me that I’d killed them.

“They’re not the little girls I remember.”

“They’re all grown up. They grew up while you lived in your little castle with your younger princess.”

“They’re dead. The girls I know are dead. It’s your fault, you witch!”

The strange thing is, he’s right. They are dead, to him. He’ll never get those girls back, the ones he remembers.

I am Medea and I’m glad I killed those girls. They know the truth now.