Making a decision and sticking with it is difficult. The human condition is an amazing thing; it is a blessing and a curse, emotions that were once so steadfast and unwavering always fade in due time. I had at one point decided that the relationship with my baby's father would not work. Now, I believed that it would.
Back in the US, romanticizing the relationship that I had with him, I found myself in the exact same state of mind as when I was pregnant. I would be happy if I was with him. I was connected to him via Skype all day every day.
The only difference now was that his pending fiancee visa to get into the US was approved. He would be coming to the US momentarily. My dreams changed from having a farm in the Andes Mountains to having a condo in a hip urban area with my soon-to-be husband and our daughter. Life would be good.
He was supposed to arrive on a Monday, and I waited for his call to pick him up at the airport in Minneapolis. I waited until Tuesday, when he called, informing me that immigration would not let him through because of a legal process in which he was involved, so he had returned to Merida from Caracas. He was unable to call me for some reason, which is understandable considering the frequent power outages and system failures in Venezuela. Traveling from Merida to Caracas is difficult, and he had gone by bus.
I don't know if you've ever traveled by Greyhound, but bus trips are not fun. In Venezuela, the busses are double deckers and have the anatomy of two trays of ice, with wheels. There is always someone annoying sitting next to you and a guy snoring because of some undiagnosed sleep apnea behind you. There are always riley teenagers yelling about something because the muffled treble of reggaetone music coming from their headphones compromises their ability to control the volume of their voice. The bathrooms are disgusting, but functional (most of the time).
The ride itself is long and the road coils itself around mountains and valleys. About half of the time, the bus breaks down halfway through the journey, and a backup bus is sent after a cold, desolate and uncomfortable wait.
Although it seemed incredibly inconsiderate, I get that he couldn't call. Tired of disappointment, I told him to not bother calling me unless he had good news for our family.
He was back in Merida with his family and working with his lawyer in order to be sure he could get through immigration on his second trip to the Caracas airport. Eventually, it happened. Our communication was so sparse at this point in time, I didn't know what his travel plans were.
I got a call in the middle of the Maury Povich show to come pick him up at the airport in Minneapolis. I never did get to find out who Shaniqua's baby's daddy was, but I didn't care. My dreams of having my family together in the US just became a reality. I was convinced that this was good news.
I picked him up at the airport and to my surprise, had the same feelings as when my baby and I met him in Caracas: I was too tired to feel happy or affectionate, or anything for that matter. Exhausted, nearly to my home in the US. I was simply spent. He had picked up flowers (which was sweet) and gave me a kiss, which ended up being quick because I couldn't stand it. I felt nothing. Nothing.
We got his suitcase in the car and went out to eat. It felt amazing to be able to introduce him to the US. For the first time he experienced things like traffic laws and order, guaranteed electricity and water, and restaurants inspected by the Department of Health.
It was September, and according the the rules of the fiancee visa, we were to be married within 90 days or he would be deported. This was day one. I was happy as a tour-guide, sharing parts of my life which I often take for granted. I faintly remembered my doubts regarding our relationship and my decision to raise my daughter as a single-parent.
Would being happy as his tour-guide translate into being happy as his wife?
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