Penultimate attempt to reconnect with my adult sons

It snowed some today, but I made it easily enough to the Italian Store in Westover to have lunch at noon on the birthday of my 30-something oldest son hoping that he would finally drop by (he lives locally), to try to re-establish familial relations with his father after over a decade of radio silence from him towards all Lambertons stemming from his induced feelings of hurt over the nuclear divorce his, in my opinion, covert-narcistic mother launched against me in 2001.  He loves his mother so, and he so had his adolescent will overborne during the divorce by his mother's coterie of "professionals" from their perch hanging out at the courthouse seeking paid work.  I'm so sorry for him, and the family-wrecking litigation launched secretly by his mother only finally ended when she was assessed $50K in sanctions and costs years later by the court for filing a "harassment petition" and an "unjustified" appeal.  I guess he is still, in an excellent example of Trumpian rejecters of reality and facts, pissed as hell.

He didn't show of course, but it was a snowbound adventure that was entirely familiar to me.  At the Italian Store in Westover, I swapped stories of snowy traffic rescues of inept or reckless drivers with two Virginia State Troopers who were taking a brief break from trying to manage the chaos outside on the nearby slick interstate (I was a Colorado State Trooper for many years).  The norms of human decency were on exhibit in the store, first responders taking a much-needed short break in their duty to safeguard the community, employees who labored to get there despite the weather so they could serve the community, servers who produced the best product for their clients who had made it there, and in my most poignant vignette, watching as a homeless person sitting at a table outside in the cold was served a complementary cup of hot coca or coffee by a store employee.

I hung out for long minutes by the pizza station hoping to see, or be greeted by, a family member (I have three estranged sons) but after awhile I went to the hoagie station and ordered a 12-inch Italian sub that was way too large to eat alone.  It was filled with meats and cold cuts, delicious and too much to eat.  I sat by the door enjoying it, where I could watch persons entering and leaving to see if I recognized anyone, but nobody familiar came by.

So I left, ruing in a bittersweet way the life I could have had but for this somewhat pretty, in my opinion covert-narcissist who I got swept up with as a young man, when she was playing me against her then-current fiancee.  I love my three estranged sons, but they are immutably aligned to her because she so worked them psychologically (she had them 79% of the time) during the years-long divorce she spawned.  My youngest son will turn 30 soon, and I will thereupon not further assiduously work to make myself available for these boys (now men) henceforth, a victory for the mother-knows-best bias of Western courts which culminates often in PAS (research Parental Alienation Syndrome, it should curdle your hairs).