So I’m 42 and a half.
An eight-year old, a baby and a dog. A much spoilt, most beloved dog. She brings me peace. I will give her the world in return.
I think I’m happy. It’s not where I saw myself but it’s where I’m at. I guess I should be where my friends are. Children growing up, getting to the point where you can start having a meaningful relationship with your husband again. Without the baby being sick or the four-year old sneaking downstairs after bedtime five times in a row.
Except I’m not – the bugger went and left me for someone else 6 years ago.
Such a cliché. Such a horrible time.
We have danced over the years, got back together and then he’s gone. Again. Somewhere in among the mess, we had a second child. A fresh start. Until he left. Again.
He has treated me better than anyone ever has in my life, and treated me the worst.
I know what you’re thinking.
“Grow some balls. Divorce him”
But I can’t. Not yet. Maybe soon. Maybe never.
We don’t remain married for the children. We remain married for ourselves. Drawing a line in the sand may prove too much.
I am the first to defend him. He is the first to defend me. He remains the person who can make me laugh till I feel sick. I can make him laugh until he can’t breathe.
Despite all that murky water under the bridge, we still love each other. Hate too. But I don’t think he’s hating me. I think he’s hating himself. And that’s even sadder. I did tell you I was the first to defend him.
As I sit here surveying the mess that we got into, one thing haunts me.
If he died tomorrow, would his family invite me to his funeral? And if they did, would I even go?
But I do know that I’d go and sit at his grave a few days later.
And I think we‘d talk.
And maybe then, we could do what we failed to do in this lifetime and put it behind us. And find our peace.