(This post is in no way directed to my husband, who is in fact the best father I’ve ever witnessed, and to him I indeed wish him the very, very best Father’s Day ever. You’re the very best dad to our boys. I love you with all of me.)
I didn’t hear from you on Mother’s Day. Yes, it does hurt, and I did notice. I didn’t see his face, just a glimpse behind a mask in a far away photo.
I love you for all that you’ve done and I will always appreciate you. But if you’ve forgotten my importance, deemed me unnecessary, forgotten who I am to him, and who he may want me to be for him one day, why do I have to keep opening these wounds for myself?
Reaching out hurts. Sending “the text” hurts. Father’s Day, birthdays, holidays, the dreaded text.
It’s not my job. It hurts too much, it’s a constant reminder of my biggest hurt, my biggest loss, my biggest trauma.
I will always love you, but today, I don’t want to think about you. He has you both, and for that I am grateful. But this year feels too hard to reach out. It isn’t my job, I don’t deserve the wounds it opens.
It is not my obligation. I don’t owe you this.
I don’t know who I am to him right now, but I know who he is to me, now and always.
So for him, I’ll send the text.
Happy Father’s Day. Thank you for all that you do for him, thank you for loving him.
And I’ll mean it, too.