It wasn’t the 113 days of playing defense, hard, refusing to give details or names or scenes or excuses when he learned she had made choices to learn, to adventure, to be her own person after three decades of tradition that began in her 14th year.
It wasn’t the duck and dodge of his body blocking the doorway or finding there was a GPS tracking system mounted underneath the steering column.
It wasn’t the waking in the middle of the darkest hours of the night to the spray of spit in her face as he startled her from sleep in the divided bed with words laced with whorish insinuations.
It wasn’t the pleading and the begging for her to return to the life they planned, or the implied life-ending opportunity he wished he had the guts to take.
It wasn’t the need to leave on her shoes or keep her coat on her person, complete with keys in the pocket and handbag moving with her throughout the house when she came home to be with the kids and show them she hadn’t abandoned them. It wasn’t her hurried move to the small apartment, with inadequate locks, just nine minutes away.
In the end, it was the choice between two futures.
Come home. I need you, we need you.
You do You. Whether I’m in the picture or not, I only want you to be happy.
She appeared to be on a cliff, leaping, suspended mid-fly, arms outstretched, fingertips brushing the edge of tomorrows.
For Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. 2/111/2016. The Chesterfield couch was installed in her library that weekend.