Note: These posts are not meant to make anyone uncomfortable. I realize it’s hard to know how to react or respond to someone else’s pain or heartache. I write to heal, to understand, to share, and because stories can help others. There is no need to sympathize or find difficult words. Likewise, don’t feel you cannot or should not comment. I share these posts because they are part of my story. No story is perfect. And, while this is not sexy writing, it is my pathway back to it. So bear with me awhile…please. I appreciate your support.
This last Saturday, my son had his final soccer game out of town. Since he usually spends Friday nights at his grandparents’, and because they decided to go to the last game, I ended up riding with Mr. D to game. Three rather painfully silent hours there, we made small talk and avoided any potentially upsetting topics. It’s too new, and both of us too raw to touch any of those wounds.
But sitting next to him was hard. The smell of him. The heat of him beside me. Normally, my hand would have, at some point, made its way across the console to rest on his knee…we might have held hands. And the lack of normalcy made it all searingly uncomfortable. It was clear we were both holding back, avoiding.
We had dinner with his family after the game (they all came, too), and then drove back home…three more hours in the loudest type of quiet, the type that is pregnant with too many thoughts that cannot find their words.
It was still my week with our son, so I dropped Mr. D off at his place, where he kissed me lightly, his lips barely grazing mine…timid, questioning, scared, sad.
I turned, in the dark outside, where he couldn’t see the shadows on my face.
I cried on the way home, but nobody knew. It was silent like everything else.