D-Day

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Photo credit: Idea go/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Tremors. And night terrors.

This week in my dreams, I’ve seen my two-year old hit by a car and been chased down by police cars at the speed of light. Phantoms of a disturbed mind.

On the surface, I enjoy my amazing life, my wonderful husband, my beautiful boys. But today, shadows from the past mar my peace.

Upon waking, I’m exhausted. I’m short with the children. It’s funny actually. I don’t even know what day it is, but then I see the date, and I’m flooded with memories. Scary ones. Ones I hate. Reading the email. This time, she’s married. Not like the others over the past five years. This time it’s serious. Packing a bag. Sitting with my children in the mall play place. Numb. Driving around but getting lost on streets that should be familiar to me after ten years. Watching my angels sleep in a cozy hotel room I booked on the fly. Wondering if he’ll track me down before I catch the 4 a.m. shuttle to the airport.

Today is my D-day. Or it was … years ago. Today I remember how my seemingly normal life splintered into nonexistence because of the letter D. Discovery Day. Doomsday. Divorce.

Today I’m reminded that happiness is fragile. Trust has become an elusive apparition.

Today I reflect on how small and simple things have changed my destiny, like a rudder on a ship. A dirty picture. A strange phone call. A fake email address. A mistress. A saw blade.

Today is my Friday the Thirteenth. At noon, my sweet husband, a carpenter by trade, calls to tell me he’s had an accident at work. The saw jumped. It caught his hand. Blood on the walls, covering the floor. My heart stops, breath catches. Not today. Chills course through my veins as I’m thrown back to a wood shop just weeks before the D-day. The real one. My ex had an accident too. On the table saw. And suddenly I’m following a trail of blood back to the garage. Sifting through sawdust looking for a missing finger. I hang up the phone and crumble, sobbing, gasping behind a closed door.

Don’t cry. Not in front of the children. Keep it together. It’s just one day. Remember when it was like this all the time? But now I’ve come so far. It’s okay to be in survival mode for just one day.

So, I put on my hat and glasses and go. I’m blank. I tremble. At the end of it all my husband is okay, he says. He is sitting next to me folding laundry while I quiver and feel sorry for myself. Who is this man? I adore him.

It’s almost over. And tomorrow I will wake up. And it will be a new day. A new day.

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