Coming Apart Part II

See Part I first if you haven’t.

So I parked and walked into the almost empty house. Much had been loaded into the moving truck already. All of the seemingly millions of boxes that hold your life. Amber’s life now, of course. My part had been moved out years ago. Maybe my part was never really there. I think we both knew when we moved here that our marriage wasn’t the best. I finally realized the cliché “we grew apart” is a cliché for a reason – that is just what we did. Perhaps not in the typical way – different interests, different friends. We actually spent a lot of time together. We always did things as a family, not because we had to, but because we wanted to. Somehow, we became roommates, and I began to miss having a lover. I’m sure she did to; I’m not allocating nor denying blame. We drifted apart as lovers, then drifted apart as friends.

The drifting is of course what made our actual divorce so difficult – at least for Amber. I had made my decision, my choice to teach my kids that happiness is deserved, that admitting facts to yourself is healthy, that sometimes you can love someone differently than they love you. For Amber, my choice was baffling. There was no big event that caused the split. Neither of us cheated Although that’s not entirely true I guess. The one and only time I cheated in our fifteen years together was just before we split up, and it was a reaction to the imminent split, not a cause. Once I deceived Amber in that way, I knew I couldn’t be a person who lived like that. I couldn’t connive and lie to someone I loved, even if the love was now that of a friend and not that of a husband. I didn’t want to look back at my life as a series of lies used to hide myself.

Regardless, Amber did not know of my cheating, therefore, she could not understand our break up. She knew we had problems. Of course, she thought they were mostly mine. I think now she was right, except that my problem was that I didn’t love her, or to use another cliché, wasn’t “in love” with her, and the solving of that problem was to admit it to myself and take the consequences. The solution was to admit what I knew about myself and my feelings and take whatever honorable course was left to me.

The breakup left her searching for answers. I never did tell her that I didn’t love her. I wasn’t brave enough. I told her that we didn’t work as a couple, that I loved her but couldn’t live with her, that I couldn’t live with what our relationship had become. I should have told her that I loved her now as a friend and as the mother of my boys; that our boys would tie us forever, but that our love would not. Again, I did not have the courage.

So I helped carry beds and dressers and other furniture – some of which I remembered, some of which was purchased after I left. We filled up the truck, dropped off a load and drove back. The only thing left was a garage filled with this and that, little bits of everything.

“I’m embarrassed,” Amber said to me.
“Why?”
“I didn’t get a chance to pack up the garage. The stuff is just everywhere.”

It didn’t matter though; we got everything packed and moved over. As Amber unpacked, my boys and I drove over to get the last little bits of stuff left in the garage – basketballs, assorted toys, that kind of thing.

I stood in the driveway and said, “Come on boys. Let’s load up. I think we got all we’re going to get.”

The two older boys got into the car, but my youngest came up to me with a basketball.

“Can you take the five dollar shot one last time?” he asked.

Let me explain. Years ago I accidentally started this tradition where I would take a very long shot at the hoop, and if I made it on the first try, I’d give the boys five dollars apiece. It seemed like an easy way to get them to root for me, and since I rarely made it on the first shot, it didn’t really cost me anything.

“I guess this will be the last time we can do this, huh? Ok, give me the ball.”

The other two boys got out of the car.

“Come on Dad!” they yelled at intervals.

I dribbled a bit. Exaggeratedly stretched. Finally I planted my feet, bent my knees and arched a perfect shot. It sailed towards the net, hit the back of the rim, then the front, then bounced wildly away.

I had missed.

“One more try, Dad. Please?” they seemed to say this in unison.

“Okay.”

Once again I lined up and shot. And missed. So I shot again. And missed. Shot. Missed. Missed. Missed. You get the idea.

After about ten minutes of this I was about to give up.

“This is really the last shot guys.”

They groaned as if they could feel the money slipping away.

Once more the shot was on its way. The ball seemed to in slow motion rotate as it flew through the air. This time it swished through the net perfectly. The boys cheered like I had just won the national championship. But I had finally made it. I opened my wallet and gave them their money.

It wasn’t the perfect ending to a chapter in your life. I took me what seemed like fifty tries to get us out of the driveway. But I did. I’m glad I did. It wasn’t perfect, but when is it ever that way?