Yesterday was hard.
I dropped the kids off to Husband for their first overnight stay. Driving them there, I wept silently behind my sunnies. My heart was heavy as I carried their pillows and toothbrushes and clothes and school bags up the stairs to their new second home.
I stared at those naked walls and bare mattresses and hated them for taking my kids from me two nights a week.
I made brief but polite conversation with the stranger who’d been my partner for 23 years, gave my babies a kiss and left. I couldn’t bear to stay, I could barely breathe.
Outside, I cried again. And then I felt a surge of rage. Ugly words filled my head and my fingers itched to translate them into vicious texts.
But lashing out doesn’t do any good.
It doesn’t glue my family back together.
I’m not sure anything can.
Now there’s a scary thought.