accept. embrace. live.

My wife and I separated on December 1, 2007.  All the paperwork is done, agreements signed, depositions taken, and it is with the Court awaiting a judge's rubber stamp. Soon, the email from my attorney with the attachment reading "AND THIS CAUSE IS FINAL." will arrive.  I'm not looking forward to that day.  When we first separated, I figured that when things were actually final, it would be just a formality.  Mere paperwork.  After all, nothing's changed in a practical sense after 2+ years of being apart.  Now that it is here, the reality of it is vastly different.  I'm getting more and more emotional... it's tough.  I cry every day, sometimes two, three times.  Regardless of whether or not it is the right thing, it's sad and it is disappointing.  You've failed.  You've failed at what was supposed to be *the* commitment of your life.  Two young children in the mix just make it all the worse.

I had the kids last night, and dropped them back with H. this morning.  Leaving the kids/seeing her lately has been difficult.  I could tell as I pulled up the driveway that I was getting emotional.  I won't see them for another week, which means it's possibly that this is the last time I'll see her as my wife.

I got the kids out of their car seats, gave them each a huge hug, and told them how much I loved them.  My 4-year old's response was, "Well Daddy, you should love God and Jesus more than you love me."  I ignored the God and Jesus stuff.  "Honey, I love you so so much, you're my special girl."  "Daddy, you should love God and Jesus more."  "Well, I don't."  The tears started as I walked them to the door. I gave them each a quick kiss on the forehead.  I tried not to look at my wife.  My oversize sunglasses didn't do as good as job of hiding the tears as I hoped.

I got back to my car as quickly, head down so the kids couldn't see, shut the door, and started backing out.  I saw my wife coming down the driveway. I stopped and rolled down the window.  I've always wanted her to see that I am not the cold, uncaring person she saw back when we separated.  He's gone.  During our counseling sessions, I sat there stoic and stone-faced while she cried. I am not that hateful, uncaring person anymore.  I wanted her to see that.  So I let it out.  And oh boy, did I let it out.  I have never cried like this in my life.  I got nose schmutz all over my shirt.  I opened up to her in a way that I have not before, and let her see a side of me that she has never seen in the 10+ years that we've known each other.

I sat there shaking and crying, unable to speak.  She offered me a seashell which she had found on the beach. She and the kids had taken a vacation the week prior.  She pointed out that it had my initial on it, carved out by some little creature.  I felt closer to letting her in.  She said,

"You need to come home.... you need to please. Come. Home. To the one who loves you..."

I felt myself softening as fleeting thoughts of calling my attorney ran through my mind.

Thinking of being a family again.  At that moment, I might have thought about coming home if she had said that wanted me to come home to her.

But she didn't.

"... more than any mortal ever could."

What??

Did I just hear what I thought I heard?  I've opened up to her as never before, never been more vulnerable as now, and she chooses this moment to evangelize to me?  I'm an agnostic, and she is now a born-again evangelical Christian. Come into the fold.  Be saved.  Come home.  Drink the Kool-Aid.   I hoped that I had somehow misinterpreted, but that hope dissipated as she continued telling me about God and how he has helped her and how he can help me with this and he can help me with that and how I am lost.

Composure not quite regained, still crying, I said... "You know what my daughter's response to me was when I told her that I loved her so much just now?  She said that I should love God and Jesus more.  She's FOUR years old, H. Four years old.  And that's her response to me telling her that I love her.  Awesome.  That's just fucking great."  I rolled up the window and backed out.  I drove out of sight, pulled over, and thought about what had just transpired.

She said nothing about any feelings that she had for me, it was about what she wanted me to be.  When we had children, I became a mere breadwinner in her eyes, a helper, not a husband.  The way I read books to my children was questioned.  When we had our second, she got a doula to help at delivery time.  I was relegated to "Hey you over there.  Yeah, you, the one with the penis.  Can you hold this leg up for us?"  Close to the end, I told her that she was not a good wife, and her (serious) response was, "Oh, so it's not enough to be a good mother?"  She didn't really love me... she loved the idea of me, loved the idea of a nice house, the kids, the whole facade.  I suppose I can't fault her too much for that; after all, I had my own facades.  I was once in love with her... perhaps even up until this moment this morning, part of me still was?  All I know is that "... more than anyone on this Earth ever could." was a very painful thing for me to hear.

Every time over the past two-and-change years that I began to move towards her, feel closer to her, think that there might be some hope, something like this happens, reminding me of why we separated in the first place.  You would think that I had gotten this through my head by now.

Sometime within the next week, I'll get that email from my attorney.  It won't be a great day.  But after this morning, it probably won't be *as* bad.

I'll probably keep the seashell.