By the time I had them tucked in, I’d decided that I would make this our new tradition. I had been waffling up until bedtime. I was exhausted from the evening, but so were the kids. They went to bed happily. They brushed their teeth calmly and jumped into bed, ready to end the day.
I knew their better behavior was more than their level of exhaustion. They felt fulfilled for the first time in a long time. I wouldn’t always be able to fill the role of both parents, but tonight I’d given them the attention they needed and the focus they craved. I hadn’t punished them for their unruly behavior by taking away the games; I’d worked to refocus their energy on some friendly competition instead. And they needed that.
The sharp burn of humiliation seared over my skin. I couldn’t believe it had taken me this long to realize how hard our movie night tradition was for them. I’d been too busy wallowing in my own grief to notice theirs. What a selfish mom I could be.
I walked back downstairs in my pajamas, wanting to clean up the games and the kitchen and then collapse face first in bed. And I knew I looked as tired as I felt.
The holidays were coming up. We’d somehow waded through the first few months of school and now had Thanksgiving to look forward to next week.
I looked down at scattered UNO cards and knew I had to do something like this for us during the upcoming holidays. We would not survive Thanksgiving and Christmas if we had to relive every tradition Grady had helped us build.
Last year at this time, Grady had been admitted to the hospital. We’d spent our holiday season piled onto his narrow bed, promising each other that he would get better and be with us next year. Those memories cut like a knife, digging into my sternum and flaying me open. I couldn’t even think about those final days without an overflow of tears and instant heartache.
We still had hope then. We still believed the treatment would work and that we would get Grady back as he used to be. We trusted that the children would have their father home with them again, that I would have my husband back.
Maybe it was because that hope now felt like an awful betrayal or maybe because I still desperately longed for that hope again, but those weeks, when we still believed he could get better, made me furious.
My hands shook as I pulled the piles of scattered cards to me and tried to straighten them. Wet tears plopped onto my hands and the table as the well of grief and frustration bubbled over. My chest hurt, my bones hurt… my soul hurt.
How could he leave me? How could he let me believe he would pull through? How could I have thought that there was enough hope and prayer and determination in the world to make my husband better again?
I was impotent then and just as helpless now.
I sunk down into a chair before my legs gave out and I collapsed to the ground. I dropped the cards back onto the table and buried my face in my hands. A strangled hiccup of a sob exploded from my chest and I gave in to the agony.
I poured myself onto the games as if they were an offering for healing my soul. I let myself bleed out onto that table and embraced the anger that now tainted every thought and emotion. I shook from the rage that seemed to boil up inside of me and threaten to take over.
I had never felt so utterly alone before. So abandoned.
The rational side of my brain argued that Grady didn’t abandon me, that he would never have done that. He had fought as hard as he could to survive his illness. Unfortunately, my emotions weren’t ruled by logic and understanding. They could only feel. They could only project what my heart felt.
And right now I was more pissed off than I had ever been.
I didn’t know if this anger would ever deplete. It consumed me. I sat there, still and unmoving, while it burned away at my insides and spilled acid eating at my soul, inch by slow inch.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was probably Emma texting at the end of her date.
The last thing I wanted to do was face someone else’s happiness, but that’s why I forced my fingers to pull the phone out of my pocket and read it. I needed to climb out of the pit of despair I’d sunk into and let some light into my shattered world.
I had to get some perspective and fast or this might never end.
I sniffled and had to wipe at my eyes several times before I could read the words on my screen. The text wasn’t from Emma after all. It was from Ben.
I know you’re dying of curiosity. Emma is a fun girl.
How did he know that about me? It was obviously true, but I didn’t think I was that obvious.
I thought about not answering him, but he was right, curiosity was killing me. Best date of your life? You better have treated her well.
He replied right away, I took her to a live sex show and then we stole a car. Is that good enough?
My face heated when I read, “sex.” It was stupid of me. But I hadn’t had this kind of relationship with a man since Grady. Most men were more serious around me. I had a husband of ten years and four children. I was kept at a distance.
Well, with everyone except Ben Tyler. He apparently didn’t feel the need to handle me with kid gloves.
It took a couple of minutes to finally decide on the right response, but eventually I said, Emma probably loved it.
Don’t lie-you would have loved it too.
I blinked at the text with no idea how to interpret that. It almost seemed like flirting… but he wouldn’t flirt with me, right after he got home from his date with my sister. Besides, he just got finished telling me what a good time they had.
I didn’t want to answer him, in case he thought I was flirting with him. But I didn’t want him to think he made me uncomfortable enough not to answer either.
Why was texting other people so hard?
My personality felt rusty and misused when I finally tapped out my reply. Something awakened in my chest and spread its muscle-sore wings. I couldn’t define the feeling or say exactly what it was, but I knew it felt liberating. It felt relaxing.
That’s the best you can do? Kind of boring if you ask me. I swiped off my screen and finished cleaning up the games.