Thank you. That means a lot.
Seriously. A lot.
Michael
Well, I mean it. Have fun.
Thanks. I’m gonna get back to my book now because the slow burn just started burning… haha.
Michael
Okay. I know what that means. Oh, and thanks for getting Stella into those books. It’s been very beneficial for me.
Hahaha. Not what I ever needed to know, but also… you’re welcome! Lol. K, love you, bye.
Michael
Love you.
I set my phone down and trade it for my Kindle, sinking deeper into the hot water.God, that feels good.
We got back from skiing about an hour ago. It was a long day. And when I say long, I meanlong. I keep trying to like it, but I just don’t. It’s not for me. Of course, I still had a great time. Jensen made sure of that. And my God, the patience he has with me on those hills… I’m not lying when I say I’m terrible. Not kind-of-bad or just new-at-this terrible. Full-on, humiliating, a-toddler-could-out-ski-me terrible. Easily.
We had a lot of laughs, though. And even though I know he’d have a great time with the guys going down harder slopes, he loves taking me. Tomorrow, he gets a full day with Jeff, Kevin and Matt, so he can get his fix then.
Today was crucial. Necessary. It gave us the space to step away from life and just be us. To reconnect without the past, therapy, family, and friends buzzing in the background. To laugh, to joke, to flirt.
It was good—a really great day.
I told him I loved him. I wasn’t planning on it, not in the middle of the day, lying in the snow, anyway. Doesn’t exactly scream romantic. But it slipped out before I could stop it—three words I’d been holding back like glass in my throat.
It’s not like I ever questioned whether I did. I always have. That’s why everything the past few years has been so hard. And the second the words were out, I had no regrets. Watching Jensen react—the way his face lit up, the emotion in his eyes, the grin that spread across his lips—and then hearing him ask me to say it again? I haven’t seen that kind of joy from him since walking down the aisle. It meant the world to him.
I’d been so cautious to let myself say it. I didn’t want to give him false hope, make him think I was further along in this than I was. But it wasn’t too soon. And it wasn’t too late. It was flawed in all the right ways. Just like us.
After my freak-out last weekend, therapy, and all the late-night talks, he’s been there for me. He’s showed up when I’ve needed him most. He’s been honest and vulnerable. Open. Humble, too. I’ve seen parts of him I’ve never seen, not even before the addiction. He’s admitted his faults. Taken responsibility for his actions.
It’s made me realize at least this wasn’t all for nothing. He’s grown. Exponentially. And so have I. Sometimes you just need that silver lining—the thing that makes all the pain and heartbreak make sense. The thing that reminds you why you fought to survive it in the first place.
I sit up, twist the hot-water knob, and paddle my hands through the bath to mix the warmth with what’s cooled.
We had another therapy session with Sophie this morning, over Zoom. It went well. She gave us homework, though. She wants us to share something we’re afraid to bring up with each other. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, and I still can’t decide.
Do I go with one of the worst memories I have—the one that still knots my stomach and that I’m pretty sure Jensen doesn’t even remember? Or do I go with my greatest fear about the future—having kids with him?
That used to be the thing that excited me most, starting a family. But now I can’t seem to picture it without the wreckage I grew up with. When I imagine it, it’s not quiet mornings, coffee, and sleepy smiles. It’s locked doors, hushed arguments, and little faces watching us fall apart. I hate that my brain goes there, but it does.
And honestly, that fear has always been there. It followed me through my entire twenties. Every date, every kiss, every guy I let close, I was already foreshadowing what the future might look like. Was he going to end up like my dad? Would my kids have an absent father? Would they have to watch me juggle the pain of witnessing the destruction of someone I loved?
I can’t imagine dealing with what I did the past few years while holding a baby on my hip. It gives me an even greater appreciation for my mom. Some nights, she’d be making dinner and trying to get us out the door for Michael’s baseball game—all while Dad was snoring on the couch behind her, an empty beer dangling from his hand.
I didn’t understand then, but I felt it. The exhaustion. The quiet resentment.
She was basically a single mother, but with a third child—a rebellious, selfish asshole who happened to be a grown adult. I hate calling him that because he wasn’t an asshole. Never really was. Not even when he drank. But what do you call someone who’s passing out, disappearing for hours, and leaving Mom with every responsibility? That’s not exactly Father of the Year material.
The biggest worry isn’t about me, though. It’s about what it would do to the kids.
Unfortunately, I know firsthand what that looks like.
