I can't believe it has been six months. It's the longest I've gone in eight years without seeing Mike's face or hearing his laugh. And I know this is the season when we're supposed to be reflecting on all those things that we're thankful for, but quite honestly, I'm feeling robbed. And pissed off.
I'm mad that my daughter has to ask questions like the one she brought up at breakfast the other day: I haven't seen dada in a while. Where did he go?
I'm mad that I have to make major life decisions on my own when I can barely decide what to eat for lunch each day.
I'm mad that I have to sleep in a king size bed all by myself, worrying about burglars and ax murderers and house fires at night.
I'm mad that I have to be a single mother.
I'm mad that I have to deal with broken appliances and lawn care.
I'm mad that I've lost my best friend.
I'm mad that I don't get my happily ever after.
I'm mad that I have to take anti-depressants to get through the day.
I'm mad that people tell me I'm holding up well and if this happened to them, they wouldn't get out of bed. Because frankly, I wish I had the luxury of staying in bed all day.
I'm mad when I see happy couples or dads with their young daughters.
I'm just mad.