…every little things seems so BIG.

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Sunday after church, a calendar notice popped up on your phone, reminding you to go to Flatirons Community Church each week with your brother. You turned to me and said, “I guess I’ll take him off and add you to the weekly reminder instead”. That meant more to me than it probably should.

A lot of little things mean more to me than they should, because I know that right now, for you, every little thing is a battle. Finally getting you to watch Game of Thrones, that moment when an episode ends and you turn to me and say, “Let’s watch one more…?” feels like winning $1000 on a scratch-off ticket. Seeing you eat real food, or go into work on a Saturday, or listening to you ask Alexa silly questions all night…hearing you giggle at her answers…right now these little things mean everything to me.

I haven’t cried from despair since you made the decision to heal. There hasn’t been much to cry about. Instead, we laugh. Or rather, you make me laugh. Thank you.

We talked on Sunday about the question of Hope vs. Despair. How to live with Faith when you have lost everything. For me, this is what it looks like to live in Faith. I’m holding loosely to my hopes for you. I know how far you have come, and how far you still have to go. I know this journey is yours – and you must take it alone. I keep doing math in my head. 30 days. 90 days. 6 months. 1 year. 18 months. 18 months feels right. It feels like the right amount of time for you to be you again. I’ll be honest and say, I’m not really sure what the real you is like. But damn am I looking forward to meeting that guy.

And just like that, our runway is shrinking again. I feel like I’m counting down the days in both a sad and expectant way. This is right. This is what is best for you. For me. For us. I wish you could feel what I feel. Know what I know. Our roads to healing will take us far from one another – but I’m hopeful – in the end we’ll find ourselves standing at the same crossroads. And perhaps, we’ll see clearly enough to walk a new road together.

If not, know I loved you. I love you still – even if it doesn’t seem that way.

I know when you start telling me I remind you of your Mom, like you did this morning, that we’re okay again. You know when I opt to wear the silky pajamas instead of a onesie or some oversized shirt – that we’re okay again. Cause secretly, I love it when I remind you of your Mom – and you love it when I wear things on purpose to please you.

You said the other day you felt like you were being rewarded for good behavior. I’ll go back to what I told your brother when he thanked me for taking care of you for so long — Taking care of you has been an honor.

This week isn’t a reward – we’ve earned this. I’ve avoided talking about the future. Talking about what happens next. I keep saying, “We should talk”, and then I make it impossible for us to talk. This is deliberate. I know once we have that talk – and we must have that talk – our spell will be broken. Reality is a cruel mistress. And still…

The kids are alright.

If you go, things will be a lot better for me. (See what I did there?)

I love you Coleman.

After all this time? Always.




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