Giveaway: Love Wars by Matthew A. Tower
Today, we have something special for our readers...a giveaway! Three readers will receive a copy of Love Wars by Matthew A. Tower, a true story of one family's wretched yet hilarious nuclear meltdown...also known as divorce! Check out the first chapter (presented here in full) and enter the giveaway at the bottom of the post.
Nate and Vanessa started The War, but only their son Matthew can end it!
Young Matthew’s world shatters when his parents split up and put him in the middle of their custody battle. Desperate to escape their never-ending conflicts, Matthew imitates his hero, Luke Skywalker, and launches an against-all-odds mission to stop Mom and Dad’s war of vengeance! Will Matthew’s little brother Thomas Rabbit help blow up the Divorce War Death Star, or will he hide and play with his bunnies?
Love Wars: Clash of the Parents is a true story of youthful bravery, and a wacky account of one family’s wretched yet hilarious nuclear meltdown . . . with an unexpected and unforgettable ending. Filled with beautiful illustrations created by renowned artist Tsuneo Sanda, Matthew Tower’s inspirational memoir is a page-turner for readers of all ages, whether or not they have been affected by divorce and family discord.
Excerpt
Goodbye to My Hundred Acre Wood
Age 6 • 1980 • First Grade
Chapter One
As I listened to my father read my favorite bedtime story,
I curled up against his chest and felt the comforting rise and fall
of his breathing. His big scratchy beard snuggled my cheek.
“Once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived two happy
people called Tim and Maggie with their two children, John and
Lucy,” Dad read out loud to me from The Warm Fuzzy Tale.
“To understand how happy they were, you have to understand
how things were in those days.”
We heard footsteps on the stairwell, and Dad’s voice trailed
off with his finger still on the page pointing at colorful pictures.
Suddenly, my mother burst into the room, her face bright red.
“Nate! It’s my turn to spend the night with Matthew!”
she yelled.
My father shut the book and glared at her.
“You’re wrong, Vanessa! It’s my turn!”
I hid my face in Dad’s chest and put my hands over my ears.
I curled up into a tiny ball.
My mother dashed over, yanked my arm, and pulled me out
of the bed. As I staggered to my feet, my father sprang up and
grabbed my other arm.
“LET GO OF HIM, NATE!”
“NO VANESSA, YOU LET GO!”
My parents were pulling my arms out of their sockets. My
shoulders hurt. My head hurt. My heart hurt.
While my parents fought and pulled, I screamed at the top
of my lungs, desperate for them to let go. For long, unbearable
moments, I was the rope in their tug-of-war. Why couldn’t they
stop fighting and love each other again? It hadn’t always been
this way . . .
* * *
We used to be a happy family. I remembered being two years
old and strapped into the kiddie seat of my parents’ yellow
Volvo station wagon, clutching my Winnie-the-Pooh. The car
was filled with the smells of sticky spilled apple juice and soggy
yummy animal crackers. My silly old bear was even dirtier than
the car. His once soft yellow fur was dingy, faded, and coarse.
He had one ear hanging by a thread and a black button eye
drooping from its socket.
caught me, wrestled off my blue cord pants and green T-shirt,
and threw me into the tub. I held tight to Winnie and giggled
while Mom and Dad sang one of their favorite show tunes. They
were such bad singers.
“They couldn’t pick a better time to start in life,” Mom sang
as she shampooed my fine hair. Her long, flowing black hair fell
around her shoulders, and thick glasses framed her eyes.
“It ain’t too early, and it ain’t too late,” Dad sang as he
scrubbed me with a brush, his arm muscles rippling beneath
the sleeves of his plaid shirt.
“Startin’ as a farmer with a brand-new wife,” Mom sang.
“Soon be living in a brand-new state,” Dad sang.
And then they sang together: “O-O-O-Oklahoma! Every
night my honey lamb and I sit alone and talk, and watch a hawk
makin’ lazy circles in the sky!”
Mom reached into the tub and moved my arms and legs as
if I were dancing on a slippery, bubble-filled stage, the sole
performer in their off-Broadway, off-key musical.
“Mommy, where’s Oklahoma? Are we moving to Oklahoma,
Daddy? Are you gonna be a farmer? Are you getting a new
wife?” I asked, splashing my drenched Winnie.
They both laughed.
“No, pumpkin. I’ve told you before, I’ll tell you again: we
just like the song. I’m not getting a new wife, but you might get
a new brother before too long.” Dad grinned and kissed Mom
on the cheek.
“Or a new sister,” Mom added.
“I love you, Vanessa,” Dad said, gazing into her eyes with
adoration.
“I love you, Nate,” Mom said, enraptured by her co-star.
Goodbye to My Hundred Acre Wood
Mom and Dad were taking Pooh Bear and me to Sears—
hooray! The car’s tape deck played a familiar story:
Deep in the Hundred Acre Wood,
where Christopher Robin plays,
you’ll find the enchanted neighborhood
of Christopher’s childhood days.
The tape came to an abrupt end in the Sears parking lot. I
kicked my feet madly, straining against the kiddie seat harness.
The moment Mommy unstrapped me, I burst forth, squirmed
through her arms and legs, and tumbled out of the car into the
sweltering North Carolina summer. Blinking my eyes against
the bright sun, I raced into the store and made a beeline to the
kids’ section.
Piled onto each other and overflowing the shelves were
Eeyore, Tigger, Kanga, Roo, Owl, Rabbit, Piglet . . . but the only
one I wanted was Winnie. I grabbed him and hugged him tight
to my chest. His velvety fur felt like the biggest, happiest smile
in the world. My old Winnie would soon retire to a huge plastic
box in the corner of my room where I kept all my stuffed animals,
including half a dozen old Winnies I refused to throw out.
My parents finally caught up and escorted me to the cash
register. “Thank you, Mommy, thank you, Daddy,” I laughed as
I jumped up and down.
When we arrived at our cozy brick house on Blueway Road,
it was bath time.
“Come on, Mr. Smiles, time for a bath,” Dad announced.
Clutching my new old friend, I made a run for it to escape
his grasp—I loved playing this game with him. As always, Dad
22 23
Love Wars
When I was five years old, Dad took Thomas and me to the
animal shelter to play with dogs. As much as I loved my stuffed
animals, I loved real animals even more. I was in love with every
single dog there, but I wanted a little doggie just like Happy
Scrappy Hero Pup from my favorite Saturday morning cartoon.
Soon I settled on my Hero Pup—a bouncy, friendly white
puppy with a tail that wagged faster than an airplane propeller.
The moment we met, she crawled all over me and licked my
face. If she’d been a boy, I would have named her Tigger. Instead
I named her Carrie, after the most excitable and energetic little
girl in my preschool class. Sometimes Carrie the Wild Child hit
other kids and screamed at them. I told myself I hated her, but
secretly I had a crush on her.
After we adopted Carrie, I brought her to preschool for
show-and-tell. When my classmates heard her name, they accused
me of being in love with my dog’s namesake. “Of course not, no
way, I don’t like her,” I told them. “My dog just reminds me of
her.” I turned bright red in the face of their teasing.
When I started kindergarten, Mom seemed more flustered
than ever about work, her problems with Dad, my bad behavior,
and especially my dog. She’d never liked Carrie, and soon she
was announcing her frustrations at the dinner table every night.
“Nate, why do I have to work so hard all the time? I’m
raising two kids and seeing patients and I have to clean up after
Matthew’s stupid little dog.”
She glared at me. “Matthew, when we adopted the dog you
said you’d take care of it, but you haven’t been taking it out
enough. It’s pooping on the carpet all the time! When are you
going to potty train that nuisance?”
My father looked away and said nothing.
Goodbye to My Hundred Acre Wood
Dad pulled me out of the tub and held me close. His big
bushy beard scratched my face as he toweled me dry. He
kissed me on the head and said, “I love you, pumpkin. Don’t
worry, we’re staying right here in Chapel Hill. We’re not going
anywhere!”
* * *
My parents met in college in New York in the 1960s, and they
settled down in North Carolina. My mother was a doctor, and
my father was a professor of genetic engineering. I never saw my
parents fight during the first few years of my life, and they were
overjoyed when my baby brother, Thomas, joined the family
just before I turned three.
Shortly after he was born, the greatest movie ever came to
a theater near me: Star Wars! For my third birthday, in June of
1977, my mother left my baby brother at home with Dad so the
two of us could go see it together. I made her stay with me in
the theater to watch it three times in a row. The next weekend,
they traded off, and I made Dad watch it with me three times in
a row again.
Around that time, I started noticing that Mom and Dad
didn’t seem to like each other as much as they did before. They
never kissed. Sometimes they fought, their voices as loud as air-
raid sirens and their faces twisted like monsters.
By the time I was four, family activities rarely involved
Mom anymore. It was just the three boys—playing catch,
watering Dad’s vegetable garden, running around catching fire-
flies, mowing the lawn, watching fireworks on the Fourth of
July.
“Go to your room!” I commanded, louder. No response.
“NATE, YOU STINK! YOU LEAVE YOUR DIRTY SWEAT
SOCKS ALL OVER THE FLOOR. YOU’RE A NEANDERTHAL!
YOU NEVER TAKE ME OUT ANYMORE! YOU’D RATHER
RUN IN YOUR STUPID MARATHONS THAN . . .”
“GO TO YOUR ROOM! GO TO YOUR ROOM! GO TO
YOUR ROOM!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, aiming my
proton torpedoes at their fighting, hoping against hope I would
get through to them.
The guns . . . they stopped. Mom and Dad fell silent
and looked at me. Then, as if they’d reached an unspoken
agreement, they walked toward their bedroom, where they
resumed their arguing but in quieter voices. I could still hear
them, but they weren’t shaking the walls with their screams
anymore.
I waited a few moments, listening, then went to my bed-
room and pulled out my Star Wars toys. Had I done it? Could
I stop my parents from fighting? I held Luke Skywalker, my
truest hero, proudly in my hands. I extended his glowing blue
lightsaber and moved him around in a phantom dance, his
electric blade slicing through all the anger that was consuming
my parents’ marriage.
I had to be a Jedi. I had to use the Force and get Mom and
Dad to stop fighting. Maybe I could learn the Jedi mind trick
like Obi-Wan Kenobi.
I imagined myself in a scene from a movie, talking to my
parents, who were wearing white stormtrooper uniforms.
“These are not the droids you’re looking for,” I said.
“These are not the droids we’re looking for,” the weak-minded
stormtroopers echoed in unison.
Goodbye to My Hundred Acre Wood
“Yes, Mommy,” I said, then ran to find Carrie so I could cuddle
with her. She licked my face, and then I took her to play in the
backyard, leaving behind Mom’s anger for as long as I could.
* * *
My mother and father’s fighting escalated over the summer
between kindergarten and first grade. During one showdown,
Mom screamed from the top of the stairwell and Dad yelled
back at her from the bottom. I sat in the middle, curled up on
the cold wooden steps with my eyes shut tight, but they didn’t
stop. They shouted over me as if I wasn’t even there.
“Nate, you’re never available! You never have time for me!”
“Vanessa, I’m under so much pressure at work, I have to
publish papers. You don’t understand what it’s like in a competitive
university research environment!”
“You think I don’t know, Nate? I fought my way through
medical school! I was the only woman in my class! All the men
gave me crap! I know damn well what it’s like. Don’t patronize me!”
They kept screaming at each other, and I feared their anger
would blow up the whole house. I had to make them stop. I
tried telling them what they always ordered me to do when
I misbehaved.
“Go to your room.” My voice was choked as I looked at each
of them in turn. They paid no attention and kept on yelling,
their voices growing louder, their gazes focused like lasers on
each other, not seeing me at all.
“VANESSA, YOU DON’T SPEND ENOUGH TIME WITH
THE KIDS! IT’S LIKE YOU EXPECT ME TO BE THEIR
MOTHER! THEY’RE DEPRIVED!”
“Your children don’t like it when you fight,” I said, waving
my hand. In my mind’s eye, my brown Jedi robe half-covered
my mysterious face.
“Our children don’t like it when we fight,” they replied
together.
“Let’s all be a happy family,” I said.
“Let’s all be a happy family,” they mimicked.
I had them now.
“Matthew’s life will be complete if you buy him a Millennium
Falcon,” I said.
“We already bought you Luke’s landspeeder for your birthday.
What part of no don’t you understand?” they responded.
What? This was my movie!
I called for a retake: “Matthew’s life will be complete if you
buy him a Millennium Falcon.”
“We will take you to the toy store and buy you a Millennium
Falcon.”
Good, good. Everything was unfolding according to my
plan.
Just then, I heard the door open, and my little blond-haired
brother waddled in. He always came into my room when he
wanted to play. He picked up a TIE fighter from my toy pile and
said “Whoosh!” as he flew it through the air. I grabbed Luke’s
X-wing and made laser sounds, imagining myself defeating
a whole swarm of enemy spaceships, and tried to ignore the
sounds of fighting still seeping through the walls.
That summer, shortly after my sixth birthday, my father
took Thomas and me to see the new Star Wars film—The Empire
Strikes Back. Dad loved it and couldn’t stop cracking jokes about
his favorite lines, like “I’d just as soon kiss a Wookiee.”
Goodbye to My Hundred Acre Wood
spent as much time as possible outside. Bundled up in my fuzzy
yellow-and-black Pittsburgh Steelers winter coat, I tromped
around Mud Flats with new friends I met on my rambles. But
whenever I was home, my stomach tightened like a vise as my
hopes for a better life in our new home fell apart.
Mom and Dad traded off between yelling at each other and
giving each other the silent treatment. Family dinners were un-
bearable. They didn’t even look at each other anymore, and even
my usually bubbly three-year-old brother kept his head down.
One night, I got out of bed long after my parents thought
I was asleep. I padded softly down the hallway to my parents’
room, trying not to make the wood floor creak, and pressed my
ear to the door. I heard them talking in agitated voices, saying
lots of adult things. Most of it was muffled, but there was one
word I could make out clearly because they kept repeating it
over and over: divorce, divorce, divorce.
The next day, after my father got home from work, I asked
him, “What’s divorce mean?” He looked at me, an eyebrow
raised. If he figured out that I’d been listening in on him and
Mom, he said nothing about it. He seemed to have bigger things
on his mind than to scold me for spying.
“Pumpkin, sit down, I need to talk to you. Your mother and
I haven’t been getting along, and sometimes when mommies
and daddies don’t get along, they have to separate.”
“Separate? Separate what?” I asked.
“Well, Matthew, it’s like this,” he said, looking confused.
Finally he said, “Your mother and I can’t live together anymore.”
It started to sink in. My stomach churned, like I wanted to
vomit, crap, scream, cry, and hurl the insides of my body out of
me all at once.
Goodbye to My Hundred Acre Wood
But I kept thinking about the ending scene. Was Darth Vader
truly Luke’s father? Could a parent really become so twisted and
mean?
* * *
When school started again, Dad told me we were going to move
over Christmas vacation.
“Are we moving to Oklahoma?” I asked.
“No, kiddo, I’ve told you once, I’ll tell you again: I just like
the song. We’re moving to the country.”
“So you’re going to be a farmer, Daddy?”
“No, pumpkin, we just want more space for you and Thomas to
play, and I want more land for a bigger garden, and your mother
wants to get away from the city.” Under his breath, he said, “And
maybe it will help your mother and me get along better . . .”
“Am I going to have to go to a new school?”
“No, your mother and I will drive you to your old school on
the way to work. Nothing’s going to change other than we’ll live
in a bigger, better house. I promise.”
At the start of my first grade winter break, we moved into
our huge new country home on Stonehouse Road, about twenty
miles outside Chapel Hill. We left behind the small brick house
with the tiny backyard near the university and arrived in a new
neighborhood with long, muddy dirt roads, houses spaced far
apart from one another, and spooky woods everywhere. Dad
called the place Mud Flats.
While my parents unpacked moving boxes, their fighting
grew ferocious. I knew they were screaming terrible things at
each other, but I didn’t allow myself to listen to the words. I
That night, my parents stopped sleeping together in their
bedroom. Mom told me I would sleep with her in my parents’
former bedroom while my father stayed with Thomas in his
bedroom. I crawled into bed with Mom and said nothing.
She tickled me and told me she loved me and everything
was going to be fine. Her long black hair whipped around
her face and seemed to suffocate me as it fell into my eyes
and mouth.
“Mommy, are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes, Matthew, I’m doing the best I can, and I promise I
still love you and Thomas.” The unspoken words hanging in
the air were that she didn’t love my father anymore. I put my
head facedown on the pillow, not wanting to look at her. She
kept tickling me, trying to get me to respond. I just lay still.
“Give me a hug,” she said. I did as she asked.
“Can we go to sleep now, Mommy, please?” She relented.
Sleep came at last.
* * *
Mom and Dad began trading off and told Thomas and me we
had to take turns spending nights with them. On the nights
Thomas slept in Mom’s room, Dad stayed with me and read
bedtime stories. I tried not to think about the divorce.
Mom left town for a few days to visit her parents. When
she came back late one night, Thomas was asleep in his bed-
room, and my father was reading The Warm Fuzzy Tale to
me. My irate mother burst into my bedroom, grabbed my
wrist, and they started their tug-of-war.
As my parents pulled me apart, tears clouded my eyes,
Goodbye to My Hundred Acre Wood
“No no no! Why can’t you and Mommy love each other?”
He stared back and said nothing.
I remembered the stories my father had told me about his
childhood, so normal and happy with his mom and dad and
brother and dog, and everyone loving each other. Why did my
whole world have to fall apart like this?
“There, there, Matthew,” he said, patting my back. I collapsed
into his arms, crying, the tears staining his powder-blue Tar
Heels sweatshirt. “Look, Matthew, I know this is going to be
hard for you. It’ll be hard for me too. But it’s not the end of
the world. You’ll still have your mommy, you’ll still have your
daddy, and we will be happier not living together. You see how
much we fight. It’ll be better this way, I promise. Trust me,
pumpkin, this is for the best.”
Mostly I didn’t believe him, but I had no energy to argue. If
I couldn’t get them to stop fighting, I didn’t see how I could stop
them from getting divorced. My Luke Skywalker powers had
failed! I had no control over the Force after all.
“What’s going to happen, Daddy? What’s going to happen?”
I asked, stuck inside the worst worst worst movie ever, dreading
the next scene. “Are you moving out? Is Mommy moving out?
Where will me and Thomas live?” I sniffled through my sobs.
“I don’t know, pumpkin. We haven’t figured it out. We’re still
talking about everything. It took us two years to get this house
built, we just moved in, and it’s all so complicated . . .” His voice
trailed off as he gazed into the distance. “Matthew, you know I
didn’t want this to happen. I asked your mother to go to mar-
riage counseling with me, but she refused. She’s determined to
separate as soon as possible. When we get it all sorted out, I’ll let
you know what the plan is.”
and memories of my early years flashed past, like one of my
father’s family slide shows at warp speed. I was desperate to
rewind and return to my Hundred Acre Wood. But it was gone,
charred to cinders.
They pulled, and pulled, and pulled. Their hateful screams
sounded like Darth Vader’s theme song.
“STOP TRYING TO STEAL MY SON AWAY FROM ME!
YOU’RE A TERRIBLE FATHER!”
“I’LL SEE YOU IN COURT, YOU LUNATIC!”
Which half of me did they want?
Finally, something shifted and my father let go. Thank God
he let go. My mother pulled my sore, sobbing body furiously
toward her, dragged me off to her bedroom, and slammed the
door behind us. She sat me down on the bed and wiped the tears
from my face.
“Everything is going to be okay. Everything will be all right,”
she said.
I stared off into space. There was a ringing sound in my ears,
like a dial tone, only higher pitched, whinier, more annoying. It
almost drowned out her words.
Almost. But not quite.
“Your father’s a miserable bastard and I’m sorry he did that
to you, but it was my turn to spend the night with you and he’s
trying to steal you away from me and—ARE YOU LISTENING
TO ME?”
I turned to look at my mother, blinking back the stream of
tears to see her blurry, angry face.
“Matthew, I’ve tried so hard with him. I’ve done everything
I can, but he’s leaving me no choice. I have to divorce him. Do
you understand what that means?”
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