“No I’m not gon’ cry; It’s not the time; ‘Cause you’re not worth my tears; Can’t do it”

He came through the side door as if it were any other day. It wasn’t. He was dressed like he just came home from a pickup game of basketball in 1985 Philadelphia. He wore dirty silver athletic shorts and a charcoal gray sweatshirt cut off at the sleeves to make a t-shirt. His sneakers lacked shoelaces. He carried them in with his wallet and keys. He appeared tired and worn out.

Days later he left.

In the months that followed, I waited for his return. In the simple moments, I hoped for a letter in the mailbox. A simple white envelope with a piece of paper folded inside. The words, though, I couldn’t predict.

He never apologized, so would this be it? Or, would he write “Fuck you.” Or, “I love you.” Or, “hi.” Or, “You deserve it. Every bit of it.”

Nothing came. Nothing ever came.

Or, maybe he’d write an essay answering the questions that haunted me.

“My first phone call was to … and I know I should have asked her to call you the night I was missing, but I didn’t. Yes, I meant it when I said, ‘I am only with you until someone better comes along’ and even though I gaslit you every time you brought it up, yes, I remember saying it. Yes, I knew how to love you as you deserved, but I didn’t because you let me get away with it. No, I didn’t love you. I didn’t even like you but you gave me a home and family. Yes, I cheated on you during the entirety of our relationship. Yes, it is your fault I cheated on you. Remember, I couldn’t relax around you. I deserved that freedom.”

Recently, I heard his voice. It had been in an old recording from our vacation to Thailand.

Monkeys had invaded our treehouse, stolen my candy bar, and wandered through our belongings looking for more treats.

In the video, he said, “You did that on purpose.” He sounded annoyed and bothered.

I remember feeling irritated that he accused me of luring monkeys into our room. I replied, “I assure you, I did not.”

Now, he still sounds that way, but it’s not out of love or like. It’s dislike. He’s irritated and I don’t think he wanted to be there with me. I was just a nuisance.

I now know when we were in Bangkok, he wanted to proposition a sex worker. He had researched it, found where to go, what to say, how to tip, and what not to say. He may have located her.

After all, he didn’t touch me. Not once during that trip. Nor on the next trip. Or on the one before it.

I deleted that video. But I can’t erase his tone toward me. I hear it now whenever I remember his voice. He merely tolerated me and I think it’s because we shared a home. He kept his life separate from me. I knew the friends he had from college and one blood relative. He introduced me to a couple of work acquaintances, but kept me separate from his bar friends, UCONN Women’s Basketball group, his mother, and the couple he claimed to have befriended in Indiana. Before I entered the picture, he said he visited them. He never invited them to see us or saw them again.

There were holes in our relationship that seemed normal, but now trouble me. There’s so much I don’t know and so many lies I’m still decoding. Like, the story of when and how he lost his virginity. The parable changed drastically throughout our relationship and I heard three different versions and the only common denominator was him.

He refused to share his phone and computer passwords with me. Now, I know why. He claimed to constantly receive spam calls, but answered the phone every time one came in. He always showered after he got his haircut, claiming his head was itchy, and took his phone with him.

He looked at pictures of his cat and our dog when he was bored, but never of us. I didn’t learn of his five-year-old Instagram account until after we broke up and also discovered he only follows one person, a woman he claimed was a barfly who smoked like a chimney.

I know these things shouldn’t bother me.

I work hard, every day, to leave him in the past. Most days I do well, even on the holidays. But this is June.  In sixteen days, it’ll be the one-year anniversary of when he blew up our life. I know it happened for a reason and most days I accept it.

Today, I wonder why any of it had to happen. I now know I’ll never receive that letter. To do that, he’d have to care. And, he doesn’t. Not for me.