My instinct was to email “-” and start a conversation about that little swinging door he uncovered on one of the basement windows — a door that seemed too small for a cat, but just about right for a rat.
Then I caught myself. I don’t start conversations with narcissists anymore
He did everything on the growing “sell the house list” — took the stuff to the dump, mowed the lawn, got rid of that tangle of old electronics in the basement. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! What a relief and improvement.
And by that I mean that I expressed nothing. Not like me, but necessary.
I asked him to please not tell our daughter that the house is on the market if he hadn’t already.
He emailed a few days later and asked me if I had told her. They communicate a lot, he said, so he’d like to know.
No, I said. I wasn’t going to tell her until after her last final in a couple of weeks. While she is negotiating her new social situation and trying to ace all her classes, to tell her right now would be cruel, I said.
What I didn’t say is, you know — cruel like moving out of the house last year at this time to more freely fuck your mistress while your daughter was getting senior awards, winning choir solos, and negotiating warring relatives as she was just trying to graduate from high school for Chrissakes.
Apparently you have to s p e l l – t h i s – s h i t – o u t for narcissists, so…I probably didn’t say enough.
I’m not too optimistic that he can hold his tongue. History certainly wouldn’t support it.