Of course you weren’t here when we needed you. Why am I surprised? Disappointed?
I text you that our oldest is vomiting, and we need you. You show up six hours late. You were waiting for me to promise I’d be nice, that’s what you said. I was cleaning puke, feeding boys. I don’t have time, or emotional energy, for your emotional sandbagging. Who waits to be asked four times over when their kid is sick?
Your mind, the mind of an addict, is a strange one. You said you wanted to be sure this would be a safe environment. As if I’m the one who slammed doors, yelled in front of the kids. Nope, not me. That was you. You, the one who was so drunk two months ago, you didn’t see your kids for a week. Or call.
You, who have been worthless for two days. My take? You’ve been using. You felt guilty. Your twisted mind rationalized your absence to, somehow, make it my fault.
This trial separation is a time to let me see, clearly, who you are. You’ve changed so much in the short seven years we’ve been married. Today I see a coward who hides behind texts and excuses. I see a man who doesn’t show up when we need him most. A man unable to set his own needs aside to tend to his small children.
I see a man who I would not marry today, were we to have the chance to start fresh.