It’s finally happened. My beautiful wife, Patches, who I saw my future and afterlife with, is gone.
She came into the reading room yesterday while I was sipping my afternoon tea and taking in a chapter of “Catcher in the Rye.” She sat down in the chair opposite me. Her chair. I can still see the indent she left in it; her presence lingers yet.
She sat down and told me it was over. She told me that there was no spark anymore, that she felt trapped with me. That she felt like a prisoner in her own home, unable to grow. Unable to live.
I was confused. Bewildered. We had done so much together; we had travelled the world, seen the landmarks of Europe, the sea life off the coasts of Australia. We had shared so many magical moments, moments that I thought bound us together in the most intimate and beautiful way possible. We had shared deep, vulnerable love. What happened to that love?
I tried to reconcile. I asked her to tell me more, to clarify what she meant. I just wanted her to tell me what went wrong. Maybe then I could fix it, I thought. I could rekindle our flame, let it burn. I could stop her from leaving me; I could stop myself from losing her.
But she refused. She didn’t want to elaborate. She just wanted to go.
With that, Patches began packing her things. She ignored my existence, even as I pleaded for her to talk to me, to stay, to trust me to make this work. I followed her around the house, tears streaming down my face and pain in my heart, begging her to stop.
She was gone before too long.
And now I’m alone, once again. Stripped of my one true friend, my lover, my sense of purpose. I am adrift in the cosmos.
And you know what the worst part of this is?
She took the fucking kids, too.