I could barely keep it together at work. Something about seeing his empty desk in the corner cuts straight through my heart.
Walking to my car, I stumbled, I was crying so hard.
I drove home with blurred vision.
I curled up in the fetal position sobbing on my couch.
I tried meditating.
I tried getting curious and observant of these tsunami waves of grief barreling through my body.
I have never grieved like this before.
What makes this heartbreak so special? So acute?
Because I am being rejected by the one person I believed would never reject me.
The father of my child.
I never was one of those women that HAD TO HAVE a baby. I never had the thought, as the years wore on, that if no one wanted to do it with me, I would just go it alone. Find some sperm donor so I could fulfill this deeply primal need.
No. Not I.
No one was more surprised than I, when my boyfriend of three months, told me I should pick out a ring and let’s make a fucking baby! Shocked and titillated that SOMEONE wanted to procreate with me, and I was madly in love with him at the time, it seemed like a magical idea, and I went for it.
I was so enthralled with the process that I believed, with every ounce of my being, the vows I was making in that courthouse in downtown Beverly Hills. I meant them.
I seriously thought we would be together. Forever.
Besides, I was the hottest, smartest, sexiest woman he had ever been with, plainly. He would never leave ME. He was the lucky one. I was slumming it.
How wrong could I be?
To be rejected by that man. The one I described above, is the worst kind of ego ache, for one.
And secondly, because of my own fucked up childhood, I was determined that my daughter would never experience the chaos I grew up in, with revolving stepfathers of a lascivious nature.
So I hung on tight. I hung onto that marriage like a life raft.
It was my security. My safety. My future. My IRA. My retirement.
And now it is gone.
I got it.
I am not grieving him, as much as I am grieving the idea of having a stable “family” for my daughter.
And that shit cuts deep.
It is primal.
I wanted so badly for things to be different for her.
But I think there is a way that I can mitigate the trauma for her.
I can remain friends with him. I can continue to love him, to the best of my ability. I can swear never to utter a negative word about him in front of my daughter. I can grin and bear it all with grace and aplomb.
I can do that. I can.
And I will.
Because for her, my precious little daughter, no sacrifice is too great.
And whether we like it or not, we are in this thing together, as a family, till the day we die.
Just not how I imagined it to be.