I’m supposed to write a letter, pretending to tell Bob all about this new world I live in. The thought of that makes me angry.
This new world is a world he isn’t here for. I know he felt like it was his only option but it still feels like he opted out. I’m angry with him right now. I don’t want to tell him about what my world looks like now. He took away my choices. He killed himself and the woman I was and the life we had. He murdered my husband.
So, I will keep the things about this new world to myself. It’s my life now. A life he no longer wanted to be part of. A life I am crawling out of the nuclear Holocaust he left behind and trying to build.
I still love him. I still miss him. But, so help me, I’m filled with rage too. I’m fiercely protective of this new life I’m building. Protective of the tiny shreds of hope I’ve gathered. He made all this pain and grief and anger and devastation and rebuilding necessary. I’m not ready to share that with him yet.