Mommy ... Mommy, is that really you?
It is eleven o’clock on a bright Sunday morning in downtown Omaha. I am sipping an iced coffee as I sit alone at a sidewalk café in Old Towne. It has been four years since I have seen my son, now eight years old. My husband, Harry, an Air Force officer, is TDY, military lingo for “away on a business trip.” He is inspecting a remote radar site at the end of Alaska’s Aleutian Islands.
Composing a letter on a paper napkin to Micah, my ex-husband, I am asking him once again to allow me to see Tommy. I tell him how important it is for Tommy to know his mother. I remind him of how angry Tommy will be one day when he learns his father has kept him and his mother apart. I compose another letter for him to give Tommy:
When the phone rang a few days later and I heard Micah’s voice on the line, I was so taken by surprise, I nearly dropped the phone.
“I received your letter and am calling as you asked. Tommy is right here. Would you like to talk to him?”
“Oh, thank you, thank you. Of course, I want to talk with him—put him on!”
“Mommy ... Mommy, is that really you?”
I could hardly believe that I was really talking with Tommy
after such a long time. When we finished talking, I spoke with Micah again, and he agreed to an August visit. Harry and I would meet them at Micah’s apartment in Greeley.
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