this is like the sad, sad drama that drags out with the most boring and unbelievable storyline.

He came.  To talk about logistics, get closure, make things final.

I was ready.  Strong and unmovable.  Arms crossed.  Wine consumed for extra strength.  Face turned away from him.

Hurtful words were said.  Tears were shed: his.

h: “I’m not giving up on us.”

m: “There’s nothing left to give up on or hold on to.”

h: “I don’t want this.”

m: “Too late.”  “I’m done.”

h: “What about birthdays?  Still together?”

m: “For now, sure.”

h: “I’m trying not to say sorry, because I know that means nothing.  I know I did this.  I wish it was different.”

m: “Yep.  Sucks.  Sometimes life is hard.”

h: “Can I have one last hug?”

m: “No.  Should have thought of that before you screwed me over and over and over.”

And more.  More tears from him, more coldness from me.

When it was done, he stood up, walked around, I walked away from him, avoiding the possibility of him grabbing me to hug.

He went downstairs, said bye to the children, told him he wouldn’t be seeing them for double the usual amount of days, would see them not until Friday but would be here all weekend while I was away in Mke.

While he was down there, I was taken aback by how good of a father he truly is.  He is.

He is a good man on some level.  Just a piss poor husband.

It hurt.  I had just gotten done telling him I don’t care about him any more, and that I had no tears left for him.

Yet they came.  I dropped to the kitchen floor and sobbed.  I heard him hugging and loving the kids and I sobbed for things to end differently.  But they weren’t.  He came up, walked around.  I wanted him to find me on the kitchen floor.  I could be seen from two directions but he didn’t see me there, or at least if he did, he didn’t acknowledge me.

I wanted him to come scoop me up, to hold me, to let me cry my last tears onto him.

He didn’t save me, just like he has never saved me from himself.  Even down to the last moments, he hasn’t saved me from himself.

I heard him let himself out and lock the door behind him.  I watched from the window, crying, as he took the flag down, ripped, torn, and put it in the trash.  I watched him put it in the trash and as he was walking back up to his truck, I went to the front door, stepped outside, and closed it behind me.  I sat on the doorstep.  I wanted him to come to me and let me hold him one more time.

He did not.

I took a few steps out onto the porch and sat on that step instead.  Making myself more visible.  I couldn’t tell if he was in his truck but I assumed he was.

I sat there, in 38 degrees in short sleeves shivering and sobbing into a snot filled tissue.

He didn’t come.

No one did.

It’s just me.

One baby sleeping upstairs.

Three kids in the basement.

One broken woman on the porch steps.

One man no where to be seen.

After several minutes, maybe 4 or 5 minutes, I went inside.

I sat at the window again and as soon as I sat down, he walked out to his truck.  He appeared to be over near the garage.  He did not appear to be crying.  He must have seen me.  The light was on and I was there, watching him leave.

No one came for me.

As I should expect.


It’s what I said I needed.  It’s all I said, was that I don’t need you, I don’t love you, I don’t want you.  Just leave.  No contact except for necessary kid stuff.

But then I broke down to a level I didn’t know I had left.  And wished for him.

And I’d pushed him away too far that I couldn’t reach out and touch him again.

And it was really over.

Dramatic but happening.