Sometimes I wonder if I wore rose coloured glasses and think I must have done so. Other times I know that the yearning I feel for the man XH was is the same yearning I know my parents and our good, mutual friends feel too. It's like he's another person. By most accounts he's harder, more selfish and far less amusing these days.
In any case, I have to go on as though this good man has died. I have no guarantee he'll be back, or if he did come back that I'd still be a part of his life. This is the hardest part of acceptance - knowing what could've been and seeing what is.
