The Weekend

At 7:28, I hear the school bus lumbering down the street. A minute later, you emerge with your son in tow. He's taller again, hell he's almost a little man as he stands beside you with a goofy grin. I haven't seen him in a year or so, and I can't remember what grade he's in. More proof of what an asshole I am.

You wave goodbye as the bus drives off, a wistful look on your face. I feel more pain in my chest, wondering how it would have been to be the father of that child, to have given you enough of me to be that man. You turn and walk back into your house, and close the door.

I give you ten minutes. Enough time to have to yourself before the emotional levity of being a mom is brought down by me.

I text you just as I walk up to your door. Then I knock. You text back immediately, before you hear the knock. You ask if I'm ok. More proof that I need to do this.

I step back off your doorstep and keep my distance by a few feet. I try to relax my body posture even though I feel strung up with piano wire. There's a chance he could be home and I want him to see I am not a threat.

You open the door, a cautious smile on your face.

"What's up?" you casually ask, even though you're scared. And you brave this inconvenience just for me, just because.

I remain the few feet away and begin to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry for messing up so many things for you, and for making your life harder. I'm sorry for not being the person you needed, when you needed him most. I'm sorry that I didn't get help when I should have. I'm sorry that I couldn't ask for help when I needed it. When I needed you.

I can see your eyes tearing up as I continue, and I can feel myself wavering, but I am determined to finish, even if he overhears my pathetic groveling.

I want to give you something you never had, and deserve. I say that you don't need to take care of me anymore. You don't need to exhaust yourself checking in on me, managing my life when I'm too lazy to do it. From now on, I will be the big boy. I take care of myself. And... I want to take care of you.

You have no reason to trust me or believe me. You have no reason to need me because you've always taken care of yourself like the kick-ass woman you are. But I want to try. I want to do things that YOU need. I want to fix your car when you need it, I want to pay for things that come up for you or for your son. I'll mow your lawn or pull weeds, or help do any other household chores. Whatever will make your life easier, I'm going to do it. If my life has existed for anything at all, if I managed by some dumb luck to survive a war, and to survive my own demons, then it should be to take care of the woman I love. Because I love her more than anything. I love you.

The tears are rolling down your cheeks, and I know I'm crying too. You take a deep breath, preparing to tell me something I'm too terrified to hear.

I tell you I'm sorry again, and turn to go. I don't want to force you into some apology, but I had to at least tell you in person, even if it was awkward and painful. You whisper-yell after me, and I halt when you say my full name. You say it like a Sergeant Major calling me back to stand attention.

You say that I'm not making your life harder. You say that you do the things you do because you want to, because you can. Because it makes you happy. It pisses you off that I still don't get it, that I still can't wrap my head around how you feel for me. You do those things because you love me. And you will always love me no matter what I do.

And you tell me a few more things I didn't know; that your boyfriend moved out a few months ago, and he's setting up arrangements for shared custody. He knew what we were doing because you told him. And you wanted him to know because it was clear you were not in love with him anymore. Partly because he's a jerk who mansplains and talks down to you, but mostly because- as you said already, you've always loved me.

I think the shock on my face has alarmed you, and you walk up to me. You look up at me with your beautiful tear-filled hazel eyes, cupping my face in your hands, and you say if I can take care of just one thing, then we will be alright.

You ask, if we are together, will I make love to you seven days a week like I normally do for at least two of them?

I say I'll try.