If Karen were hateful, I'd react more strongly but I sense she loves this new world, and I am the architect of it. All her actions clearly demonstrate her happiness as well as a strong affection for me. Yet there resides deep within her a denial, as if this new and wonderful world is a fairy tale, about to be yanked away. She craves constant examples that this will not happen. I vowed to address every test she presents me and be a match for it. Most of all, I adamantly refuse to let my husband intervene.
Now that Karen sees my patience she has stepped up her campaign, at times in Paul's presence. He has objected vocally, in front of both of us. Paul and I discussed this over our customary glass of wine before dinner last evening.
"You deserve better treatment. We're married now! It's time she recognized you're here for good."
"I don't care if it takes years. I'm the interloper, Paul, not Karen. I'm tickled pink at the progress we've all of us have made and I'm not going to force the issue. Her moods are no big deal. The poor girl lost a mother, gained a replacement and has been hauled off to a new home, new neighborhood, and new school; all this happening while her body is hatching into womanhood! She's acting out, like a teenager."
I crossed my fingers knowing Karen's feelings ran far deeper than a rise to puberty. Furthermore, I craved more than politeness from her. I remained steadfast in my heart that this girl and I were meant to be inseparable. I told my husband I was willing to give my new daughter as much time as she needed. He reached over, hugged me and agreed to let me address the problem my way. The next morning Karen's testing began in earnest.
I was dreaming of that other time, when I didn't have the soft security of Paul lying beside me, or a new house and new family, only wearisome days creeping along, one after another, a self-jailed captive in my drab apartment and colorless world. Then my new husband stirred in his early morning sleep, moving his warmth against me. I gradually woke to a soft swell of happiness and heartwarming reality, and a shuffle of padded footsteps.
Timmy staggered into our bedroom, pajamaed feet shuffling along, dragging his ever present stuffed bear by its one arm. He was Christopher Robin, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Good morning," I said to the bear, yawning myself awake. Reaching over, I took the toy from Timmy's hand and held it high. "How are you this morning, Mr. Frump?" Paul rolled over and covered his ears with a pillow.