Omnes Alios Propter Eum Dimittere

Doorway
Photo by Florencia Viadana on Unsplash

You went to therapy like I asked and learned to communicate with harnessed emotions. Which turns out, I hated more than the mess you were before. I left you cold, saying I deserved a real partner, not the doormat I cut from a paper doll. 

When we divorced, we did it 50/50.  

You took that box in the attic with old paychecks from jobs quit, unemployment stubs, and the scars from living in a tent that winter before we moved indoors trying to conceive a child when we ran out of firewood, and before our bodies sunseted on the stork. You breathed new life into these things with someone else, and now live the American Dream. 

I took the other half of our belongings: the dark clouds and sulks, and put them into a $500 tattoo of a snail shell that I uploaded to Instagram for safekeeping and accountability.  

Somewhere along the way, I fell into a hole where I only make love to my career. 

Years later, you message me, and all we’ve got leftover for each other are favors.  

Yes, I love your mother so much, and I’m happy to expedite her paperwork before you and your future husband travel to Asheville for your wedding. But since I live all alone with my cats, jealous glares, regrets, and the wonder of why I can’t have what you got, the actual favor I do for you is the favor you do for me, which is letting you remind me that once upon a time, you really did mean your vows, and it's okay and worked out for both of us that I didn't.  

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