H-E- Double Hockey Sticks

With each step I took down the hallway I could feel my blood temperature rising…and yet my mind was blank.  There were simply too many things – confusion, anger, betrayal, sadness…

And, perhaps the most confusing thing of all, was the fact that I still loved him.  More than anything, I wanted us to hold on for dear life and come out the other side unscathed and burn free.  I wanted to have tears running down my face in 364 days as I cried, “Yes, of course, yes!” after he got down on one knee – knowing we had been to hell and back and that if we could survive this we could make it through anything.  I wanted to have mashed potatoes in my hair as I struggled to make Thanksgiving dinner for our parents.  I wanted us to lay in bed, exhausted from a night of assembling dollhouses and bikes with training wheels, only to be awoken by Lily and James (don’t judge me) proclaiming that Santa had come.  I wanted him…

But as I stood in the doorway, I knew it wasn’t us who had been to hell – it was just him.  He was already gone and it was on me to decide whether or not I wanted to go after him.

There he was – lying in the fetal position on the floor – no tears, no frown…nothing.  He was gone – broken by his own failure.  And in that moment I knew there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him.  I closed the door, made a call, and went to make rent.



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