He's so rarely home for dinner anymore. I like the fact that he's gone, though knowing where he is, knowing he's with her is rabidly humiliating considering I am still here. Still, the fact that he's with her means he's not here with me and any time he's not with me I am content.
One of my favorite things when I was little was when my mom would make breakfast for dinner. I don't know why it was so fun to have pancakes and eggs and bacon at six at night but I remember being so excited whenever it happened. I recreated that for my kids tonight, knowing that he'd be gone. He's always gone on Fridays. Fridays are a night I know I have to myself. I love Fridays.
So I made my pancakes, I scrambled my eggs, I fried my bacon. I mixed up some chocolate milk and I heated the syrup. I was even light enough while recreating one of my favorite childhood memories for my children that I was singing to myself in the kitchen while I worked.
That's probably why I didn't hear him come in.
"What the fuck is this? Tell me this isn't dinner!"
Kind of a far cry from "Honey, I'm home!"
His words don't bother me anymore. I decided to stop allowing him the power to hurt me. But when he takes me by surprise it is difficult to scramble my armor together so his words don't wound.
"Do you think this is healthy? Do you want to make the kids fat? Fat like you? Is this part of your diet?"
He ruins so much. He seeks out fun and enjoyment and he just sucks every last drop of it right out of the room.
So he's home tonight, I guess. Maybe his whore was busy. Maybe she kicked him out because he showed her his true colors. Maybe she got fat and he moved on. I don't know. All I know is, he's home now and my fun dinner tasted like ashes.