M. is proving himself to be the best
ex-husband a girl could ever hope for. It’s not just that the checks arrive on
time. It’s that he emails me pictures and updates of the kid when they’re with
him. It had always been my job to make sure the boys saw their grandparents
regularly, but now he takes the kids to visit his parents weekly – and he stops
by my parents’ house on the way home. He even invites my parents to spend time
with the kids at his apartment. I explode in frustration: “Why are you doing
all of this now? Why weren’t you this great when we were married?”
I
explode in frustration: “Why are you doing all of this now? Why weren’t you
this great when we were married?”
March 21, 2010
I’ve been on Facebook for six months and
only recently discovered, quite by accident, that M. is on it, too. In an
unhinged moment of trying to show how evolved I am, I send him a friend
request. He emails me saying he’ll accept the request – as long as I don’t mind
seeing that his status is listed as “single”
I don’t reply.
April 3, 2010
A friend is visiting while the kids are
with M. “You look good,” she says. “Everyone who’s heard about your divorce has
been surprise, because they say you’ve never looked better.”
“I’ve
never felt better,” I tell her honestly. “In these last few months I’m happier
than I’ve ever been.
“I’ve never felt better,” I tell her
honestly. “In these last few months I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I’ve been
trying to put a name on this strange, unfamiliar feeling of lightness. I think
it’s called ‘absence of suffering.’ ”
I do cry sometimes, I tell her, but they’re
cleansing tears – not the black tears of depression.
“Well, whatever it is, keep it up,” she
says. It’s nice to have the old you back.”
April 5, 2010
While spinning on the tire swing at the
park, my younger son throws up. He’s not feeling well, and the pediatrician is
available in two hours. Just enough time that it makes no sense to go back to
my house, when we’re already so close to M.’s apartment and to the doctor’s
office. I call M., and we head to his place.
I’m
doing my kid’s laundry, and my husband’s laundry, in a home where their things
belong, and I don’t. Silently, I start crying and turn my back to M
We usually do the handoffs at my house, so
this is only the third time that all of us have been here. I deposit my son in
the tub, then throw his clothes in the washer. I fill up the load from the
hamper next to it. And I reflexively empty the dryer.
M. is sitting just a few feet away. “You
don’t have to do my laundry,” he says.
“I’m not.” But I am. I’m doing my kid’s
laundry, and my husband’s laundry, in a home where their things belong, and I
don’t. Silently, I start crying and turn my back to M. so he won’t see. But I
can’t turn my head too far, because then my son may be able to see me from the
bathroom. So I keep my head at that funny, twisted angle, hunched over the
washing machine, and sob.
Today
The past two years haven’t been easy – for
me, for my children, for their father. Time does not heal all wounds. But it
has allowed for scar tissue to form, enough so that the wound no longer
requires my constant attention. Though we’ve lost so much, M. and I have
developed a beautiful relationship – and even a friendship.
She
lives with her two sons in Maryland. If you think you’ve met her future
husband, drop us a line. She’s ready to meet him.
Still, the divorce was a death. It was the
burial of family photographs with four people in them. It was the burial of my
head leaning on M.’s shoulder as we watch our sons get married. It was the
burial of a love that lived so deep in my bones that it was the actually
marrows of my existence. It was the burial of M. holding my hand when I’m 79
and he’s 83 as we sit on our old green upholstered couch, debating the cost of
generic versus brand name, while he’s wearing the plants I bought him, pulled
halfway up his chest.
R. M. Yaqub’s writing was featured in the
most recent volume of The Best American Essays anthology series. She lives with
her two sons in Maryland. If you think you’ve met her future husband, drop us a
line. She’s ready to meet him.
