MEMOIRIST IDOL

Life Chess: King Narcissist, Kid Pawns, and a Queen With Open Eyes and Ears

I watch his every move across the board.

My daughter spoke at warped speed, her words tumbled out on top of each other, energized by hope and good fortune.

Her voice filtered in and out through my ears and became background echoes in my brain.

I lost focus. The debate in my mind kept overriding the words she shared. Internal shrieking alarm bells and frantically waving red flags overshadowed her glee.

As my daughter filled in details and brought me up to speed regarding her living situation, I fought to keep the ricocheted pinball in my head from bouncing all over the place. The raw truth shocked me, yet possessed a familiar ring of deceit and disgust that I knew well from the past.

Silent screams ripped through my heart and brain as I stifled my heightened angst. How far will this damage reach?

I kept it together on the outside. Though an adult, she’s still my child who continues to navigate mental illnesses and emotional delays on the spectrum. My years of practice and success in quelling my inner turmoil work well in communicating with her. I swallowed the acid and stuffed back any personal need to erupt. No quaver can be detected in my voice.

This time was no different.

She was unaffected by reality as she spoke. Happy, elated, over the moon with her supposed good fortune.

I desperately needed to end the conversation lest I throw up. The bile rose to the back of my throat and my head spun. This was ugly, sneaky, and underhanded with malicious intent.

She was blatantly put into play as an expendable pawn.

By her own father.

She had no idea.

My daughter had her second child, only a few months old, and lived in a rented two-bedroom trailer with her boyfriend and their new baby. I was awarded custody of her firstborn who was placed in my care at 7 weeks old. This situation rode along smoothly for 2 years, in spite of the residual divorce anger festering in my ex-husband.

And now he, my daughter’s father, was also soon-to-be her landlord.

I could feel his bloated self-importance and ego-filled pride at his genius first move.

The bitterness of my leaving our marriage blinded him from simply enjoying his new life, his new wife. Verbal sniper attacks were randomly timed whenever I relaxed.

He donned a victim mask based on the infrequency of seeing his grandson, whom I raise. He manufactured selfishness on my part, to anyone who would listen. I was keeping the baby out of reach. Poor him. Such a bitch of an ex-wife. The pity-filled eyes of others spoke of the lies he told them.

In the first two years of our grandson’s life, I agreed to the 5 or 6 total visits that he requested. Our homes were less than five miles apart. His weekends away, boating, and work took precedence, however. He was self-focused and his busy social life didn’t allow him to enjoy his grandson. That explanation wouldn’t bode well for his public image so I paid the price as the sacrificial scapegoat.

He only asked to see his grandson near the holidays and I delivered.

So, bitch that I am, my grandson and I moved. I had no ties, no support, and only heartache and gameplay where we were. My grandson deserved better, stomping grounds without the weighty negative air. I found a home for us 2 ½ hours away.

My ex-husband’s campaign of hate against me grew with a simmering vengeance.

He set up the game board. Pawns and vulnerable areas were identified as he plotted a takeover from the high horse of a throne. His plan formed in the hallways of despicable darkness.

I hung up the phone with my daughter and sat in my own darkness to contemplate.

Our daughter’s excitement bubbled over. Her father purchased a bigger, three-bedroom trailer right around her corner that he would rent to her. She and her boyfriend hadn’t considered moving; they were happy with the roof they had over their heads. Comfortable. What a wonderful surprise that her dad, who never participated in her mental health journey, had stepped up to the plate and graced her with such a generous gift. Three bedrooms!

She and I bonded through a lifetime of stormy skies and hate-filled moments which always ended in stronger love. We talk honestly and unguarded. Without thinking, she spilled out that the third bedroom would be for her son.

The son I was raising per the legal custody granted by the family court.

In my shocked and sickened state, I asked my daughter why I wouldn’t be included in the game plan. Decisions were being made behind the scenes that could potentially change her son’s life, my life, and even her own. She wasn’t equipped to raise a toddler and a newborn. Her words. She was acutely aware of her limitations.

“Dad said not to say anything.”

“I promised him that I would finish my case plan with the state and qualify to petition for custody. I had to Mom, to get the trailer.”

My brain was on fire.

My ex avoided all family court sessions for his grandson, was unaware of the system or the requirements, and foolishly put all his eggs in one basket. He chose to blindly believe our daughter. More often than not, her truths consist of tiny seeds of reality strangled and intertwined by a jungle of half-truths and fantasy. He wouldn’t know that as he had little to no involvement with her.

Unaware, the King left himself exposed.

She never even reopened her case plan.

He believes she’s still working on it.

Every once in a while he asks her for a case plan status update. She replies with terms she’s familiar with but he is not. It keeps him satisfied. Smug. He patiently awaits that one day when he achieves the greatest coup of all time.

Hurting me by taking our grandson.

It is inconsequential to him that his selfish plan is not in his grandson’s best interest, or his own daughter's.

My ex and his wife headed to a beautiful island nearby last weekend and requested to stop and see our grandson for the first time since 2020. I agreed. That’s how I operate. Civil and polite exchanges, distractions as Ian entertained them with his loving demeanor, and our community playground as the backdrop lasted for an hour.

And off they went.

I never confronted him, and I never will. That’s also how I operate.

Two years have elapsed since he purchased that trailer of deceit. He moved the pawns around the board, stole my Rook, and gunned for my Knight when he organized our granddaughter’s christening without including me or Ian, her half-brother.

Check?

I lay in bed at night, wondering if he knows.

Does he know that I know his plan?

Would he even care?

I do know how he operates, and that’s enough for me. Each move he makes is calculated and, fortunately for me, obvious.

Ironically, my daughter agrees. She enjoys the elbow room of her 3-bedroom place for just her, her boyfriend, and her little daughter. She’s got mad skills at this game of life chess. Who knew?

My grandson and I are still here, doing our thing, and quite content.

Checkmate.

I was heartbroken and inspired by The Celtic Chameleon’s story for the Memoirist Idol contest which you need to read below. Her encounter made me question life, and my actions, and subsequently opened my eyes to the choices we may be confronted with regarding the world’s children, ours, and yours.

BONUS: If you are divorcing a narcissist, this story by Suzanna Quintana is a must-read. Trust me.

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