The Budget of Paradox

Sophia: I love you. I miss you. I am deeply sorry that you grew up without me around. You deserved to have a dad.

I can easily explain why I was gone before you turned five years old. But after that? It’s a long story. I hope you let me explain it to you someday. But I was never gone because I didn’t care.

I think about you all the time.

Sophia: The only way I can reach you is if you Google your own name and find these pages. But you know, for years, I’ve noticed something really stupid. And it’s about time I complained.

For whatever retarded reason, many years ago, your mother created LinkedIn profiles for you and Morey, and said that you both were attending Harvard Law School. I have no idea what she was trying to accomplish by doing that. Seems childish. And — and — I’m 100% certain she’s lost the passwords by now. So if you or Morey ever want a REAL profile on LinkedIn, good luck with that. Google firmly believes that you and your sister are students at Harvard Law School.

http://black.blue/flat/docs/harvard.png

Maybe someday, my blog will appear above your LinkedIn profile in a Google search. I hope so.

So, whatever. I’m sure Kirsten is happy, but I can’t imagine why.

Sophia: I don’t know if you’ll read these entries out-of-order or whatever. But the big idea was for you to see your 2022 birthday letter and a list of things I’ve sent you in the past few years.

In case you missed them, here they are:

http://black.blue/SoBe-birthday-letter.pdf

http://black.blue/sent

Sophia:

Two-thousand eight was an endless struggle. The marriage I had with your mother was already in trouble. The US real estate bubble was over. We couldn’t sell anything. We lost everything. In the middle of it all, your mother was pregnant with you. In general, we wanted another child. But the timing was completely wrong. Her pregnancy was considered “high risk” (because Morey was born premature), so her doctor ordered her to stay in bed.

This is a completely true story.

Your mother was a realtor in Hawaii. Her mom was a realtor, and her sister, and her stepfather, and many of her friends were realtors. She was good at it. She earned plenty of money. For several years before you were born, there was a “bubble” in US housing prices; the bubble was exaggerated in Hawaii. In just a few years, houses tripled in price. If you bought a house – any house – you could turn it around and sell it for a profit in just a few years. Or a few weeks. Your mother “flipped” two houses like this. She was good at it. A senior government official called the housing market “irrational exuberance”. People were making a million dollars from nothing at all.

Like all bubbles, it popped. The party was over. This happened while your mother was pregnant with you. When it stopped, your mother and I owned a big house in Waimea on Kauai (only a mile from where you were born). It was a wonderful house with the ocean view. At one point, we had half a million dollars in equity (meaning we could have sold it and walked away with $500,000). But after the bubble, the house was “underwater” (its equity was less-than-zero; to sell it would be a loss). But we couldn’t sell because no one was buying. It was a total loss.

I was heartbroken because I loved that house. So many memories of Morey there. But there was no time for emotions. Your mother was in bed, unable to earn any money, and I was taking care of Morey. I was working full-time in Waimea, and we had to move to an apartment in Lihue. Moving was a struggle; we had far more furniture in Waimea than we could take to Lihue. Your mother and I quickly ran out of money. We spent our savings and used credit cards just to buy food and gas. I sold the Mercedes and my nice cameras.

I cannot emphasize enough how badly we needed money. All of our bills were late and unpaid; it was a struggle just to keep Morey’s life “normal”. So many dreams were broken, so many plans abandoned. So much financial security was lost. So much uncertainty about the future. When you’re an adult taking care of children, and you have no money, it’s an extraordinarily daunting source of stress. If I were single, and poor, who cares? I mean, it’s only me. I can survive. But almost nothing in life is as bad as knowing you cannot provide for your own children.

As you know might already know, I went to Iraq just three days after you were born in November 2008. In Iraq, I could make one thousand dollars a day, seven days per week, every day of the month. When the job in Iraq was announced, I applied, and I was turned down. But I refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. I insisted on talking with managers, and I wrote letters and e-mails. When someone told me ‘no’, I would simply go talk to their boss. I pushed and badgered my way into that job. I “beat the bushes” as if my life depended on it.

I was desperate.

I was desperate to provide for you and Morey. I was desperate to rebuild our lives. I was willing to endure the stress of war to alleviate the stress of being broke. We badly needed the money. I cannot overstate this.

But the Army first required that I attend a week-long class in Georgia. It was a class on what to expect in Iraq and how to survive. I think I went there in October. My company paid for the flight to Georgia and provided the airline tickets. Because it’s a business trip, they, of course, pay all my expenses. But my company required that I pay my own hotel, food and rental car. Then, afterwards, they would pay me back. My company reserved a room for me at a nice hotel that cost $800 per week. But your mother and I didn’t have 800 dollars. I was too ashamed to tell anyone at my company. I stayed in a cheap motel, and lied by telling everyone the nice hotel lost my reservation. You need a credit card to rent a car. I only had one working credit card left, but there was no available credit left. I sold the last of my palm trees to raise enough money to have enough credit to rent a car. I had no money for food that week; I stole extra food from the Army cafeteria when they gave us lunch.

We were completely broke, and I was doing everything and anything I could do to survive.

Three days after you were born, I left Hawaii for Iraq. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye all of you. But I hid my emotions.

Large companies often pay their employees every two weeks, and usually they’re a week behind. So, when I arrived in Iraq on Monday, December 1, 2008, I had to work for two weeks, then wait another week, before getting my first big wartime paycheck. In other words, the big money didn’t start coming until Friday, December 19 – just five days before Christmas.

Christmas.

Your mother, just like me, was eager to give Morey a happy Christmas morning. More important, to give your mother and sister a sense of normalcy again. I know they were at home, with you, completely broke. No Christmas tree. No Christmas presents. No nice Christmas dinner. Nothing.

I got paid with Direct Deposit. That means the money is deposited electronically into my account. The money appears in my account around midnight on payday. Most of the time, I didn’t really care about the exact time. I would just go to sleep, and wake up the next day with money in my account.

But on that Friday in Iraq, December 19, 2008, I logged-in to my bank account to check my balance. It was the afternoon (because of the time difference with the USA). I remember hitting ‘refresh’ every few minutes.

And after a while, there it was: eight-thousand, five-hundred eighty-four dollars.

Oh My Good God. I couldn’t believe it. It’s just a number on a computer screen, but there was an emotional reaction. My heart raced. After more than a year of struggling to raise money, there it was, coming after so many hardships and heartbreaking losses; after the badgering and bullshitting I did to get to Iraq; after persistent depression and frustration; after total financial ruin.

Some quiet place in Fallujah, in the freezing cold, just before Christmas 2008, thinking about my children so far away.

If anyone ever suggests I’m a deadbeat dad, or don’t care about my children, tell them this story.

I love you.

I thought this was damn funny. Some magazine for Virginia lawyers announced that your mom’s lawyer was dead. But it was a mistake.

She wrote to tell them she was still alive.

Too bad it was a misprint. I really believe she hurt my kids. You might not agree now. You may never believe it. But it’s true, she hurts children. And for that, I hope she dies painfully and slowly, alone, isolated from her family.

Family Court lawyers aren’t really human, so I don’t feel bad saying that.

Betsy H. Phillips, family law attorney, lynchburg, rustburg, joy lee price deathwatch