While I'm at it, I need to get something else off my chest.
Since the bomb, I have been trying to forget a particular evening, just after our S2 was born, but it keeps coming back—maybe I can get it down and out of my head for good. H left for a work trip when the baby was just a week or two old. It was late on a Thursday evening. I was alone with my two little ones, laid the baby down on his back for just a moment, and he spit up and started choking. He was coughing and struggling for air, and scared me to death. I called 9-1-1 and asked for an ambulance—we live in a rural area, and I didn’t want help to be too far away if the baby got worse. As soon as the paramedics arrived, my little boy started breathing normally, and everything was fine, but I was (obviously) very shaken. I tried calling H. No answer. I now realize that he was with OW. Their R was just becoming physical. He wasn’t there for me. Because he was giving himself to someone else. Someone who knew all about me, and “how he truly felt, and how his feelings were all my fault”. (According to her, when I called her post-bomb—a story for another day, ‘cause if any of you knew me, you’d never believe I really had the guts to call her.)
There. It’s out. And because the past is behind me, it won’t ever be mentioned again.
