I know you always said that we were part of something bigger.

Sam is moving his toy cars in the freshly cut grass, and it's turning his clothes green, his fingers green, and I don't have the heart to tell him: things that have life stain, things that grow leave marks from where you made them bleed.

I know you always said we were part of something bigger, but you said it before the stock market crashed; before May got old enough to resent us, before I lost the will to wake up in the morning and tell her to have breakfast with us. You said that before you met your boss's secretary. Maybe our family was more work than you bargained for.

The kids still hear me cry at night sometimes. I feel like a bad mother for letting them, but goddammit if I can't feel sad sometimes, goddammit if I can't drink sometimes, goddammit if I can't pass out after work and let the kids pick up the pieces of me that were always missing.

You're still here, but you're not here, in the way you said you'd be when we got married ten years ago. Sam isn't doing well in school and I don't have the heart to tell him that it's not going to be okay for a long, long time. That his dad isn't helping him with his homework because he's too busy fucking the secretary. That I'm not helping him because I won't help myself.

I know you always said we were part of something bigger, but I say you're a hypocrite and a liar. Fuck you. What if you'd forgotten about all the things we lacked? What if you'd never followed through? What if we lived in a house with a blacktop for a lawn, with a broken broiler, with a bedroom the kids had to share? What if we lived off air and dirt and dead trees, and our heat parched our lips, and our noses were always a little bit too cold? What if we couldn't afford to be miserable?

What if we were small? And insignificant? And what if you were okay with that?

Because I would rather be missing the ironing board, or hot water, or designer clothes, or the lukewarm beer I slide under the bed. I'd rather be missing sleep, I'd rather be missing arms and legs, I'd rather be missing the mortgage instead of knowing that you got a promotion at the firm and met that goddamn secretary.

Does she know we exist? Or do you kiss her and tell her about the family you've never had but always wanted? Do you have your own hypotheticals, where you met her instead of me?

In another life, were you part of something bigger?