Le Divorce...or at least Le Leaving.

I asked my husband to move out on August 1st. Seven years ago now, though sometimes it feels like five minutes. Our kids were 2, 3, 6 and 7.

I forget sometimes. How it felt. To have one life and suddenly to have another, even if it was my very own choice. I forget that I loved him. I only remember the little things. Like how we had just painted our family room a weird shade of cayenne pepper that didn't go with our brick fireplace. I remember the way the paint was still so fresh it smelled like it might taste good. I remember thinking 'Two weeks ago I must not have thought it was so bad...we were painting our house."

That look in David's eyes behind his glasses stays with me. Angry but not. A mask he slipped over his cheeks so I couldn't see his wounds. The sound of Jack and Nathan's deep, rhythmic breathing through the baby monitor. Crickets outside our kitchen window and congealed dish soap crusting it's dispenser. An episode of the Simpson's in the background...I think it was the one where Patty married Sideshow Bob.

I was wearing pyjama pants and a tank top. Ordinarily we would have been having sex instead of breaking up. It was a hot night. All the boys were sleeping in their own beds. The dishes were done. Prime conditions.

I wish I could tell you why I decided it was over. We were fighting all the time. I remember that. Though I can't remember what the major fights were about. Mostly it was stupid stuff. Like what would we do if we won the lottery - he wanted to build a house with a fieldstone fireplace. Which is so not my thing. We fought about movies - he is a Charlie Sheen lover. I am not.

We fought about the kids. About the amount of milk he put in their cereal bowls and haircuts and bedtimes. He pretended to treat the older boys - mine from a previous relationship - the same way he treated our two and I pretended along with him. All the while thinking 'They're mine, they're mine, they're mine...'

But the truth is - I was young. so young. And I was stupid. I wanted to hurt him, to claw at his skin to see if I could make him feel...something. Anything. I couldn't see past hurting him, not then. I wanted him to love me enough. And he just couldn't.

The truth is I wanted him to beg me to stay. To kick down the door I hid behind and tell me I had to stay. The truth is I wanted to move back to my hometown, but I wanted him to come with me. The truth is, maybe I thought I could do better. Be better, with someone else sleeping beside me.
The truth is I knew, deep down further than my own toes, he just wasn't for me. And I wasn't for him.

The truth is, I'm glad I did it now. But for a long time - longer than I care to remember - I didn't know the truth. At all.