I’ve already left once and come back.
It was 1999 or 2000. Derek had moved to Calgary and kept saying I should too. Better money, easier living, all of it. My wife at the time thought it was a good idea. So I went ahead first. The plan was to secure a job, find a house, get everything ready, then send for Sharon and the kids. Zoey and Zachary were still young. We were going to start over. I was excited. I’ve always thrived on change, on new places, on the idea of leaving and building something different.
I lasted less than a month.
I took Zoey’s small stuffed animal with me. It smelled like her. Those first couple of nights, I held that thing and smelled it and thought about my baby girl back home. By day three or four, I lost it. I called Sharon and said I’m coming home. I couldn’t do it. The isolation hit faster than I expected, and I didn’t have the tools to sit with it. So I ran.
I came back to Calgary a couple of times after that, stayed a weekend here and there with Derek. But I never moved. I’ve never left since. Until now. And I’m terrified of that happening again.
The difference is I’m not the same person I was at twenty-five. I’m fifty-three. I was a different father then, younger, less present, not as connected. With Zoey and Zachary I did the best I could with who I was. I loved them. I still do. But with Emma it’s different. She came when I was older, when I understood what mattered, when I was ready to actually be there. We’re close in a way that I wasn’t close with my older kids. That closeness is both my anchor and my fear.
Month four is real. That’s when the novelty wears off. When the new place stops being exciting and starts being where you actually live. When you realize you’re alone. When the depression that followed you across an ocean figures out there’s nowhere else to run. When the phone calls home feel like torture because you can hear the distance in everyone’s voice. When you realize you didn’t fix anything by leaving, you just took yourself somewhere else.
I know that feeling. I’ve felt it before. The question is whether I can sit with it this time instead of running. Whether I can call my daughter and hear her voice and not cave. Whether I’m actually ready to do this or if I’m just another guy who thinks leaving will save him.
I don’t have an answer yet. All I know is that I promised my daughter I would try. And I promised myself I wouldn’t come back. So when month four hits, when the isolation wraps around me like it did in Calgary, I’m going to have to remember why I’m there. Not for me. For the life I’m trying to build so I can actually be there for her.
I failed in Calgary. I’m not going to fail this time.