The Summer Vacation

Casual conversations with my ex-husband are a rarity. After we divorced, I was the one who couldn't stand his reports about dates, flings, and screenshots from readers who, captivated by the romanticization I had created around our relationship, jumped at the opportunity to message him. Needless to say, he always answered. Back then, I refused to hear about it, ignored him, cursed, and blocked him—I wasn't ready to hear about anything that brought him pleasure. Although I was the one who initiated the separation, I hadn't planned on raising the fruit of our love almost alone. But today, I am reaping the fruits, and there is no juice sweeter than this. My little beloved.

When my life got back on track, the sleepless nights passed, my career gained momentum, and from the shards I built beautiful kingdoms, my heart forgave, pardoned, and opened again. I wanted us to spend holidays together, to go for breakfast or to plays like a family, not in a romantic sense, but there was no answer at the requested number—he had changed it completely, not a single digit repeated. We both moved on, each living our own life. A thousand times he told me he hated me, and a thousand times he said he didn't mean it. And I did the same to him: a strange relationship of love (familial) and hate, unclear.

Two weeks ago, an incident occurred. For the sake of privacy, I won't go into details; it's not my life, and I have no right to detail someone else's. I will just write that we spent long hours in the same room (everyone is healthy and whole, it's not a medical case). At first, there was embarrassment, silence, giggling, and my well-known cynicism. But as time passed, something opened up. He, of course, excelled: he told me, without sparing any details, about the women around him, showed me messages from those whose hearts he broke and those who broke his. And I felt nothing. No love, no anger, no regret—complete indifference.

Then I dared to delve deeper and asked him to detail the gestures of love he had made for various women after the divorce. For one, he planned a fun day; for another, he paid for an annual hair salon subscription; with one, he went to Thailand; and for another's child, he bought a laptop for their birthday.

"And did you fall in love? Hard?" I asked.

"Yes, once, maybe twice," he answered. "Actually three, no wait, four. That's it, four for sure."

We burst out laughing.

"Idiot," I muttered.

"And you?" he asked.

"No," I answered, and didn't continue. It was the distilled truth. If he had asked me the same question five years ago, right after we divorced, I would surely have told him about a burning love that consumed my days and nights. Yes, there were suitors: once he even babysat Geffen at our house, and a courier arrived at the door with a huge box containing a video screen with a song and photos of me, from some rich and stupid suitor I had. But the years passed, motherhood took such an essential place in my life, I lost my mother, I was sick, I recovered, I got stronger, and I managed not to fall into altered states of consciousness, neither into alcohol nor into depression. So what is jealousy? Another stupid emotion that wastes time.

"Not even in one?" he tried to probe further, assuming he didn't understand the change that had happened in me.

"Only in my daughter," I answered, feeling a bit disgusted with myself. I didn't want to be like those women who divorce and become mothers 24/7, giving up on any future partnership. I knew that wouldn't happen: a writer must fall in love at least one more time. But okay, that's also a satisfactory answer.

Afterward, we reminisced about the winery where he proposed, the street party in Jerusalem we stumbled upon. Something in him lit up; he returned to those parties and the music—there he manages to express himself and live exactly as he likes.

We talked about the dog, Menash, about Geffen's beauty, then we both made a hamsa and decided not to talk about her beauty in front of people. When we finished with the hamsas and the spitting, I remembered he was Ashkenazi, looked at him, and asked, "Why are you pretending? You're a Herman."

"Hamsa on you too," he answered. We had another good moment, and he felt the need to tell me how, two weeks ago, someone put her head on his chest, and when he told her that I was his ex-wife and that one of his shelves held my book, she pulled it out, went back to bed, and started reading it to him.

"This is the first time I've heard this story," he revealed.

"How? Didn't you read it before?"

"I preferred not to," he answered.

That story describes a beautiful love scene: we are both on the beach, it's night, I'm ashamed to wear a swimsuit, he protects me, covers me with his hand, and we make love in the water. Of course, there is literary exaggeration there, and I don't compliment myself regularly, but the story is romantic, exciting, very sexy.

"She read it to me in your voice," he said.

"She wishes," I replied, breaking the indifference I had asked for. We laughed again, and then there was silence.

"Well? Did that give you credit points with her?" I inquired.

"What you call an open credit with her," he boasted. I considered charging more in alimony for this, but I gave up.

How I waited for this indifference! He committed many sins against me. But I won't engage in settling scores; there's no point. I waited to be indifferent to any anger, not just toward him, but toward people in general. Not to find forgiveness within myself, but simply to let life flow, not to dwell on and stir up what has passed. How much longer will we be here? No one has extra time. How I waited to sit like this, not succumbing to male trolling, but on the contrary, giving advice on the next story he should read to her—I even gave him the exact page numbers. More than that, I went out to the car, opened the trunk, pulled out another book of mine, dedicated it to that girl, and gave it to him to pass on.

"The truth is, she's been your fan for years; I was ashamed to tell you," he said, holding the book. It was clear to me. "Tell me, do you use my name? As your ex-husband?"

"I open dates with it," he answered without apologizing. And again we laughed—four or five times, which hadn't happened in too many years.

"And you? Do you use my name?" he inquired.

"Yes," I answered.

"Really?" he blushed.

"In the enforcement and collection department."

"No, no, you don't change," he scolded me, and we laughed again. The sixth time.

The most clichéd sentence you know, about time healing everything, is the truest. And yet, if you say it to a bleeding, wounded, and heartbroken person, they won't hear or understand it. Even if you show them receipts from your life and others'. A person needs time. Time for gathering, time for soul-searching, and time for recovery—if they choose to recover, of course.

When we parted by the car, he asked if I wanted to go eat shawarma with him.

"Who pays?" I asked.

"My treat," he smiled.

I saved the invitation for next time; it was ten to three, the last day of summer camp before the big vacation.

I drove home quickly, packed swimsuits, cut a watermelon, took water and two sandwiches, picked up the curly-haired one who looks so much like her father, and we went to the sea. She built us a beautiful kingdom of sand and shells, and I sat on the shore, looked at her, and let the water and salt wash away everything that still remained.

And then the sun set, and the big vacation for both of us began.