I know what a sad picture I must be to this happily married mother of three — the ex-wife who never moved on, who is still haunted by the past

Goldie talks about what she’s learning in school, what her teacher said, and drama with her friends, and everything except for the other family that she inhabits, her three siblings and happy parents and the life that she prefers.

Goldie talks to me, but she doesn’t wait for my answers, my reassurances, and my advice. She gets that from another woman, shiny-bright-perfect Elisheva. Ima.

I wrench my hand away. She is the very last person I want to speak to now, the woman who has inherited the new-and-improved version of my ex-husband. The woman who has never experienced any of what had ruined me.

We’re not friends. We’re two women forced to coexist for the sake of our daughter. I have never lost sight of that.

GOLDIE IS TWO YEARS OLD. I am holding her tightly, and that’s the only thing keeping me upright. Tehila is standing next to me, glaring at Yossi as we leave. I am leaving. This isn’t the first time that he’s gone too far. But it’s the first that he’s crossed the one line that he never has before, done the unforgivable, and Tehila will not let me stay.

I’m your big sister, she will tell me later. It’s my job to keep you safe.

I am no longer safe in my own home. Goldie clings to me, recoils from Yossi as he reaches toward her.

“Please,” he chokes out. His rage has faded, and all that is left is the hollow horror of someone who knows there is no return. “Please, if we can just… she’s my daughter.”

I can’t speak. I don’t know how to open my mouth around Yossi anymore, not without a bolt of fear leaving my body on edge like a live wire. Tehila speaks for me, simmering with righteous fury. “You can tell that to Rikki’s lawyer,” she says. When the door closes behind us, I am still shaking.

GOLDIE IS THREE YEARS OLD. I have lost her. Not forever, not completely. Just three weekends a month. I don't fear for her safety, not as I had my own, but the weekends still leave me in despair every time. I sink to the floor of my modest little apartment, the lights out and the air conditioner on so high that goosebumps erupt across my arms.

I have to see him when the weekend comes. I pass Goldie to him, and he talks to me sometimes, little tidbits as though he is desperate for me to know that he has changed, that he is better. That his therapist has him doing breathing exercises and that he’s dealt with disappointment at work without blowing up.

Maybe he is. When he takes Goldie now, she doesn’t cry. She holds his hand trustingly and talks to him about nursery. Watching him makes me feel nauseous and on edge, like two and a half years of suffocating fear have returned, but I can tell that he’s calmer now. After the weekend, Goldie chatters happily about his house full of toys, about the cholent that she loves and a trip to the park.

I spend weekends in the cold emptiness of my home, drowning in memories of the past. I snap at Goldie without thinking, instinctively repulsed by the pictures she paints of life with him. Goldie’s smile falters.

He is smiling when he returns with Goldie. I don’t smile back.