I was telling myself he would return, someday. Deep down, I refused to believe he was gone forever.
So I wrote, mostly in free-form. Most of it was likely rambling and nonsensical, but I hoped it would be helpful, informative, a record of our collective sadness for when he returned.
Caleb would eventually know Sarah didn’t take the job at the public library because she’d assumed the management of my bookstore in my absence. He’d know his brother and sister wept often, in private. That his mom had started taking antidepressants, and that his dad was even more silent than before. Laura and Sarah had put their own quest to have a baby on hold, and their wedding, too.
He’d know I’d given up my second bookstore because I couldn’t handle the responsibility of a new business. Or anything, really.
All life had come to a halt, it seemed. Except the one growing inside of me.
Sometimes my words flowed, and I described everything I was thinking and feeling. I wrote how I wanted to kiss him and once explained in great detail how I’d make love to him. It might have been the best erotic scene I’d ever written, one that would never be published.
I’d given up all hope of a writing career.
In the tedious days of my bed rest, it was easy to convince myself he’d just walk into the condo and everything would be the same as before. When it happened, I would show him the journal, and he’d read it, a grave look on his handsome face. Maybe he’d laugh softly in parts, and then he’d kiss me.
Today I opened the book and scrawled the date at the top of the page. My handwriting was shaky, my insides still rattled from the dream. The back of my throat was scratchy and raw with tears. For the millionth time, I felt mortally wounded and abandoned, left wondering how I was going to have this baby without him and doubting how good of a parent I’d be without the man I loved.