May 1
To finally feel peace.
To feel safe.
To fall deeply into the sheets knowing the love of your life would come home to hold you—
to comfort you.
Our baby tucked inside my womb, warm and safe and loved.
And I exhaled, as I let myself believe—no matter what—everything was going to be okay.
Finally.
We would just stay here.
We would make this house a home.
With eyes closed, I imagined us in the front room,
assembling a wooden crib with yellow sheets—and blue.
Getting ready for him, our little boy.
My love—
you were so kind. So gentle.
You were happy.
You were a partner, a friend, a lover,
the rest of my life.
Imagine the sun beaming through the window, soft and warm—
the way your eyes looked into mine,
how my heart reached for you.
My hand in yours—
and holding your hand felt like warmth and sun and soft rain.
Like dancing in the middle with you.
It felt like the past.
Like my future.
My forever.
My dreams.
The stars in the sky.
Every wish I had ever made coming true.
It was you.
My everything.
My love.
My husband to be.
The father of my child.
My trust.
My everything.
My everything.
My everything.
I loved you in the gentlest ways.
The most forgiving ways.
I loved you unconditionally.
I thought I was meant to soften all your sharp edges—
to carry the scars until the edges dulled, until they no longer cut,
until you no longer needed to cut.
You were my shelter from every storm I had stood through
since I was no bigger than the one I carried inside me.
And I—
I was the gentle eyes that saw through your armor.
The hands that reached for you every time you felt less than perfect.
The hands that took off your mask
and saw you.
Just you.
No ego. No pride.
No image to uphold, no guarded reflection, no facade.
I was going to be the one who stayed.
The one who stayed long enough
that you could finally let it all down.
I thought I could heal us.
But when you said, “I never want to see you again for the rest of your life,”
you may as well have driven your whole fist through my chest—
gripped my heart in your hand—
and ripped it out
while smiling,
watching me bleed.
And with one hand to my stomach, holding our son,
as silent tears traced my cheeks,
in my final breaths,
with trembling blue lips,
my voice would still have gently whispered,
I love you.
To feel safe.
To fall deeply into the sheets knowing the love of your life would come home to hold you—
to comfort you.
Our baby tucked inside my womb, warm and safe and loved.
And I exhaled, as I let myself believe—no matter what—everything was going to be okay.
Finally.
We would just stay here.
We would make this house a home.
With eyes closed, I imagined us in the front room,
assembling a wooden crib with yellow sheets—and blue.
Getting ready for him, our little boy.
My love—
you were so kind. So gentle.
You were happy.
You were a partner, a friend, a lover,
the rest of my life.
Imagine the sun beaming through the window, soft and warm—
the way your eyes looked into mine,
how my heart reached for you.
My hand in yours—
and holding your hand felt like warmth and sun and soft rain.
Like dancing in the middle with you.
It felt like the past.
Like my future.
My forever.
My dreams.
The stars in the sky.
Every wish I had ever made coming true.
It was you.
My everything.
My love.
My husband to be.
The father of my child.
My trust.
My everything.
My everything.
My everything.
I loved you in the gentlest ways.
The most forgiving ways.
I loved you unconditionally.
I thought I was meant to soften all your sharp edges—
to carry the scars until the edges dulled, until they no longer cut,
until you no longer needed to cut.
You were my shelter from every storm I had stood through
since I was no bigger than the one I carried inside me.
And I—
I was the gentle eyes that saw through your armor.
The hands that reached for you every time you felt less than perfect.
The hands that took off your mask
and saw you.
Just you.
No ego. No pride.
No image to uphold, no guarded reflection, no facade.
I was going to be the one who stayed.
The one who stayed long enough
that you could finally let it all down.
I thought I could heal us.
But when you said, “I never want to see you again for the rest of your life,”
you may as well have driven your whole fist through my chest—
gripped my heart in your hand—
and ripped it out
while smiling,
watching me bleed.
And with one hand to my stomach, holding our son,
as silent tears traced my cheeks,
in my final breaths,
with trembling blue lips,
my voice would still have gently whispered,
I love you.
When you stay, because you believe you are enough to save him.
When his cruelty is a projection of childhood wounds he never healed.
When his traits tear you apart, but you still hold out your hands to him,
gazing at him with nothing but love.
When you carry his child, because he convinced you to.
And when he tears it all away—again—in the blink of an eye,
because you saw too much,
and he could no longer hide from you, he could no longer face it.
When his cruelty is a projection of childhood wounds he never healed.
When his traits tear you apart, but you still hold out your hands to him,
gazing at him with nothing but love.
When you carry his child, because he convinced you to.
And when he tears it all away—again—in the blink of an eye,
because you saw too much,
and he could no longer hide from you, he could no longer face it.
