I miss you. Also, I wish you were here to remember to bring in the trash cans because that shit is hard and the HOA is on my ass about it.
So, as you may remember, our child is fucking brilliant. Like even unbiased, she’s basically a genius. She’s writing cursive. CURSIVE. She’s four. FOUR. I told you, brilliant. Genius. Our spawn gets a huge thumbs up.
Hey, so here’s the thing. I’m really mad at you. I know that’s not fair, because you had cancer and then you died, but I’m still mad. I’m really, really mad. This life, the one I’m living now, is NOT what we agreed to. You were supposed to be healthy, to take care of our child and of us, and I was supposed to work and pay the bills and the other minutiae of adult life. I didn’t agree to this. Single parenthood. Single income. Single, single, single.
When I get mad, I hear you in my head (fucker): “relax, it’s cool, no big deal.” Well, you didn’t do the Terrible Two’s, the Terrorist Three’s, the Ferocious Four’s. I did. So shut your mouth. But I’ll be fair. When I’ve hit my limit, when I’ve reached the point of BIG MAD, I hear you in my head. You tell me to relax, to breathe, to chill. Sometimes, I do. Sometimes, I have to take a time out and yell at you in my head because YOU AREN’T HERE. And I know you didn’t wish that. I know you wanted it to be different.
I’m Trying. I swear, I am. I’m frustrated. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m…I’m everything.
But I’m trying. I really, really am trying. I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here.