There is nothing worse than crying yourself to sleep – except maybe crying yourself to sleep next to someone else.
There used to be moments – I would make a joke or miss my mouth when eating food and he would look at me, smile, and say, “Lauren, I love you.” It was as though my mere existence was enough.
We used to talk about our children’s names – we could decorate a hypothetical apartment for hours and never get tired. We could giggle and talk until we fell asleep only to wake up next to each other and do it all over again.
We used to be insatiable.
When I was eight, I saw my parents bring my Barbie dream house down from the attic on Christmas Eve. My mother immediately began trying to explain – but my father looked at me tiredly, as if to say I should have known.
I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore. I don’t know how many more times my heart need be taken for a ride.
I am going to stop writing now. I feel tired.