I sat my six-year old son down and told him we were moving to Atlanta, Georgia. I took out a map of the United States and showed him how far away that was from the living room floor in which we sat in Pebble Beach, California. All he knew was that he wouldn’t be seeing his father every other weekend, but that actually wasn’t a bad thing. It was time to put some distance between us and him. Things were still volatile.
I often wonder if my attorney and his attorney, who were friends, made a backdoor agreement about me moving my son out of state. I was expecting a fight, but there nothing except a court ordered six-week visit with his father before we left California.
In the time leading up to our move, I brought books home from the library about the state of Georgia for us to look through. I wanted to find things that would excite him about going.
My husband left before us. He had been hired by a large hotel company and the job was in Atlanta. I stayed behind for two more months so my son could finish school then I reluctantly left him with his father while I went to set up house in the unfamiliar city.
Two weeks later I drove to the hotel to meet my husband for dinner. I had just hung the last picture on the wall in our new apartment. When I walked into his office he told me he had good news and bad news. The good news was that he had been promoted, the bad news was that it was in Philadelphia.
I called my son and asked him if he knew where the Liberty Bell was.