I have no idea where this came from…

As I was cleaning up from the yard sale tornado that swept through my home last Thursday, I came across an email between and ex and I. I’m not sure why I still had it or why it was shoved down in the laptop case that was worth alot and got sold or 25 cents, but I had it.

photo credit: Kath Toman

The date was March 26, 2002. Six years ago.

Reading it, I could see my immaturity even though at that point in time I had already been married, had two kids, and divorced.

I chuckled, because he and I are still friends and we’ve both grown so much in that last six years.

I shared this email with the BFF and a long drawn out conversation ensued in which I had to take a trip down memory lane.

I can honestly say that of all my breakups, the one with him, that time (because there were two more after that) was the most painful.

The last and final one was okay. We knew it was coming. We were very good friends, but moving in opposite directions. He had a budding career in law enforcement and was still in school while working, and I had two kids, just finished school and was moving to Richmond to pursue my career goals.

And he was younger… which disproved my friend’s theory that if you got them young, you could train them.

I don’t know why that particular break up hurt so much. Perhaps it was because after my divorce I was so guarded. I didn’t want to date again but my father kept telling me to get back on the horse. He wasn’t my first boyfriend after my divorce, but I guess he was the first real serious one. At least in my mind… there were others looking for a ready made family and I certainly had that to offer.

But what I remember about that wasn’t really the breakup in and of itself… but my mother.

You see, I was living at home at the time, in school full time, and working. After breaking up in the morning, somehow I managed to get through the day at work and school and came home. That evening I went to bed and cried. And cried. And cried.

And cried.

I thought that I was being quiet, but apparently I wasn’t because before too long, my mother appeared at the door with tissues.

But she didn’t stop there. She came and got in the bed with me and laid there. She listened to me talk. She listened to me cry. She listened to me wail over and over again that I loved him and that it wasn’t fair. She didn’t say much, just sat there and stroked my hair and wiped my tears.

She stayed there until I eventually cried myself to sleep. And if I remember correctly, she was still there when I woke up the next morning.

My mother has been through many many breakups with me, but this was the first and only that she did what she did for me. And I remember that. I remember it like it was yesterday.

And while I don’t want my children to ever have to go through that, I know that they will. And when it happens, I want to climb in the bed with them, tissues in hand and just listen.

Because I know what that feels like. And I’m not even sure she knows just how much that one small act (among others she’s made throughout the years) meant to me.

Until next time…