I am so jealous, of everyone.
I dropped a friend of mine home a few days ago, and watched as she entered her house. Where her husband and children were waiting. The house lit and alive and warm.
The house I come home to is cold and dark as I bundle my children inside. It warms soon, with light and laughter. But it is up to me to do that.
I miss the feeling of coming home to safety and security, the home fires burning. Ever since January, all I’ve wanted to do is go home, where it’s safe, and escape all this pain for awhile.
I miss being married. It was never a huge thing for me- “It’s just a piece of paper.” It wasn’t until I got married myself that I realised it was so much more.
That was one of first things that hit me, about losing Tony- I was no longer someone’s wife. I was no longer one of those special women, so loved and adored that someone wanted them all to themselves.
I loved referring to Tony as ‘my husband’, and he loved calling me his wife. (“You know what I always remember him saying, about you? Laughing and saying ‘Fuck, I love my wife’”, says one of Tony’s friends). We loved the idea of being married, that actuality of it… we adored each other.
“I will spend the rest of my life, waiting to die, so I can see him again. I’ll never find anyone I love that much again.”
“I know,” says my best friend. “I know…. you were the best of mates, when you weren’t fighting.”
And we were. Even I do ever find someone else…. I think I may have lost my soul mate for good.
I phone to organise insurance for my new house. Finance? asks the women on the phone. No, I say, I will own it outright. Isn’t that fabulous, says the woman. She works for LifeLine, she tells me, and mortgage stress is so common, to be my age with a house to my own is just marvelous.
Lucky, maybe. But it certainly doesn’t feel that way.
Stuff the house. Fuck all of it.
I’ll trade it. For one more minute, one more second, laying in my husband’s arms.