uncomfortable not to be depressed. You feel guilty for feeling happy.
― Pete Wentz
My wife, Hope, died leaving me with two year-old Autumn and a house full of memories and a heart full of guilt.
I wasn’t faithful to her or Tessa, her best friend, with whom I had the affair.
So, here I am, sitting in the dark tonight, watching the rain of red leaves outside, and grieving for my wife who died in the prime of her life, unable to hold the child she bore.
It’s not fair—Life never is, but it’s especially brutal to Hope and to Autumn—growing up without a mother.
I was selfish and ended up ruining all our lives.
One thing I’ve learned, however, is to be faithful, and that’s how it will be—Autumn and me—alone against the world.
You’re thinking only of yourself, Mark.
My blood freezes and I start tingling all over.
In the gloom beyond the doorway, a wraith appears—Hope in her hospital gown, staring forlornly at me.
I open my mouth to speak. My lips move, but no words come out.
She speaks again—I’m not sure if I hear it with my ears, or inside my head.
I was planning to tell you—and say we’d start all over. She pauses; a rueful smile darkening her face—Autumn—what a lovely name!
My eyes burn with grief as she retreats, and the chasm between us widens, until she becomes as distant and unreachable as the Moon outside.
In an instant, she’s gone. I dissolve to a puddle on the floor.
Moments later Autumn awakes, crying. I pick her up to soothe her.
She lays her head on my shoulder—and I bury my face in her damp hair, waiting for the ache in me to subside before tucking her back into bed.
I look out the window at the gray sky and the crescent Moon falling through clouds—in the same way our lives have fallen through cracks, in a long series of nights, now stretching out desolate for the rest of my life.
How long, O Lord—how long?
The furnace comes on. There’s the familiar dry scent of heat through the registers—the rain of red leaves in the yard.
And I am alone.
Good post
Thank you, @mix21