Abuse Culture Highlight: The Aftermath

It's been over a year since we spoke. My stomach is knotted and I look upon the two little creations we literally embodied. My breath catches in my throat. I am trembling and agitated.

Nine years. Such a sudden and abrupt end. Such a heavy, heavy awful nightmare turned reality. And that was left unanswered, unprocessed, and broken open.

That rawness comes spilling back as I await his replies. He's been in prison for an entire year but perhaps is finally free of his imprisoned mind.

I just need an answer. So that I can finally make my decision. To restore apart or together.

My son — who has born the weight of that betrayal with more grace and patience and compassion than I ever have about any of mine — is so much better off. He misses him fiercely. He prays for his soul.

I weep, or I want to, because my life has been filled to the brim with choices no one should ever have to make.

Here is another. I take a deep breath. I have no choice but to choose and live with the consequences.

I have no choice but to deal with it. To face it head on.

The work begins.