The widow in me hates that his ghost is so visible; that he does all these things for her and her children that he promised to us me all while I was killing myself to support all of us.
The widow in me wants to thrash, scream and tear down walls. This was not the life I had ever imagined for our children, for myself as I stood across from him and vowed my life to him or as I squeezed his hand and cried silently with that last push that brought our children into the world.
The widow in me is on her knees. She is tired. She wants to escape. She wants her children and herself to be “happy” too. Whatever “happy” even is.
The strong independent woman my mama, grandparents and ancestors raised her to be wants to scream, “THIS IS BULLSHIT. This is NOT what I’ve worked so hard to provide for.” But this comparison is the thief of all my joy.
If I closed my eyes tight enough... I would open them to see that I have the ultimate prizes. I have my babies. I built them brick by brick inside of this amazing body. I have my health. I have the ability to provide a roof over their heads, food on the table, a vehicle to get us from this place to the next.
Shit could be worse, and I know because I’ve lived it and don’t ever want to look back.
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