Default Means Nothing? Oh, Honey, Pull Up a Chair
A sarcastic stroll through blame-shifting, no-shows, and why court orders don’t expire like bad milk.
Oh, the thing about abusers?
It’s their adorable little refusal to take even a smidge of accountability for their oh-so-charming actions, which conveniently leads to all that delicious blame and manipulation. You know, the kind that whispers, “Oh, Sweetie, if only you, the poor victim, would just blindly follow their lead and nod along to their sacred instruction manual, everything would magically be fixed! *puke
And control? Pfft, that’s their precious carcass - the rotten core they gorge on just to keep shambling along in their sad little existence. Cut off their precious supply chain, and watch them morph into hangry teenagers without boundaries - relentless pathetic teenage behaviour emails. Hungry, anyone? Bon appétit, I guess.
Just listen to the ex, wax poetic about this oh-so-enlightening “control” in those charming little emails he bombards me with: “It’s control, I get it,” he scribbles, as if he’s just dropped some profound bombshell.
First off, darling, the projection of an abuser isn’t some subtle whisper, it is a full-throated scream blasting out of a megaphone, echoing for all to hear. How original.
Secondly, he had his golden, can’t-miss opportunity to rebut, rant, and have his precious say during the divorce process.
Oh, wait a hot minute - dammit, that pesky, not-so-little annoyance known as ‘default’ just had to crash the party and shut it all down. How utterly inconvenient… for him.
Oh, a default divorce? That’s just the court’s cute little way of saying one spouse files all the paperwork, serves it up nice and proper, but the other genius (the respondent) decides to play hide-and-seek by not bothering to respond or show their face in court within the oh-so-generous legal timeframe. Boom - divorce granted, along with all the fun stuff like custody, support, all based on the petitioner’s (my) requirements, as long as it’s vaguely fair and not totally bonkers.
But what if I told you he strutted around spouting, “Default means nothing,” like it’s was his new favourite mantra, over and over again? Because ignoring reality makes it vanish… right?
What if I told you that he pens these profound emails claiming court orders just… expire on their own, no variations needed? Poof, gone! Because who needs legal tweaks when you’ve got wishful thinking?
But what if I told you he couldn’t be bothered to grace us with his presence on our court-appointed days? Shocking, right?
What if I told you he’s popped in exactly once in four and a half years to see the kids? Even though the court order spells it out crystal clear: one weekend a month, with three weeks’ notice to little old me. But nah, it’s all “blah blah blah control,” he whines.
But what if I told you zero Christmas gifts? Not even a half-hearted “happy whatever” card or email. Festive spirit? What’s that?
What if I told you child support is court-mandated, yet Maintenance Enforcement has to play full-on detective just to squeeze a single dollar? Because voluntary responsibility is so last season.
He chose to pack up and hightail it out of province? How thoughtful of him to make such a bold, independent move and he keeps on choosing to actively ghost every opportunity to show up! What a consistent overachiever in the absentee department.
That “control” he imagines I’m wielding like some evil puppet master? Yeah, that’s totally not a direct byproduct of his own brilliant life choices.
Yes, I’ve got that shiny sole-decision responsibility - aka sole custody locked in, thank you very much.
And no, sweet cheeks, I won’t be bothering to vary the order. Why mess with the perfection I “blood, sweat and teared,” for.
Actions have consequences, after all, and if owning that makes me a bitch, well, hand me the crown and I’ll wear it with pride and a smirk.
After all, if his version of “control” means me stepping up where he bailed, then fuck yeah, call me the queen of it.
