I wanted to love her. But how could I?
I used to cry. Once in a while, but real big when it happened. I'd shake. He'd wrap his big hands around my head and press my face into his chest. I'd shake there and he'd rock me back and forth, soothing me like he'd always done, even back to when I didn't sleep the nights through.
When I left I saw him cry for the first time for me. It was for me, no one else. I admit it. It felt good.
I got to sever the ties. I had the power. I got to move on. He had to deal with his first child, his little baby girl leaving him. His oldest daughter, the only woman in the house for years was leaving.
When I returned, he had hardened toward me.
Uncountable times we had healed together. Bumped heads, skinned knees, broken bones, puberty, boyfriends, divorce, car accidents, curfew, death, money...on and on.
He had healed without me for the first time. This tragedy had two sides, and we weren't on the same side this time, even at the root. He wasn't willing to take me back. He couldn't find it in himself to hold me anymore.
I disgusted him. My reliance on him disgusted him. It was too much pressure. He had a new life now. A new car, double income, two names on the checking account, someone else to talk to, to listen to him, to fill his time, to laugh with, to acomidate.
How could I, a grown woman? I had a man, he should take care of me. I should get a job, a home, a life. His life wasn't like this. His dad didn't do this. What was wrong with me?
And I liked her. She reminded me of my grandmother. I wanted to love her. But how could I?
And her? She had to be perfect, and she was outnumbered. There were five of us and him in our old house. The odds were stacked against her. We all had roles. We had places, routines, habits, levels of tolerance for each other. We could say fuck off, go to hell, get out of my face and still love each other. She didn't have this luxury. How painful.
And there he is, unintentionally setting us up against each other, with every good intention.
How could she ever love me?
The tangled web we weave.