We used to be the ones who did date nights,the ones who professed our admiration which grew into love. First in private direct messages, letters, phone calls, Twitter, Hangouts, telegrams, cross-country bedroom visits, morning after coffee and pillow talk. We even had our own hashtag that others used when they would witness our exchanges. It was cliche and delightful. Post sex languorous tears over our fears for our children, their future, and what that meant in terms of our own mortality. We would talk about and begin to plan a commitment ceremony, never a wedding. We talked about a baby. We tried new restaurants. You took me to happy hours in the city I moved to to be with you and introduced me to all of your friends who swore they never saw you happier.
But then reality set in. You said I didn’t know how to live in a house that you owned, wasn’t rented. It was the second house you owned. Eventually I paid part of the mortgage, but it was never mine. Never ours.
In fact soon even I wasn’t yours. Sure we lived together but our lives were lived parallel to one another, not intertwined. You refer to me as your roommate, despite the fact that we actually share a bed and bodily fluids. Problems you were having became “single papi problems”, a not so gentle poke at my years as a single mother and how I was able to leverage support and even work from that experience.
We used to be the ones who did date nights, together. Now, on the eve of our first country flight our children have placed bets to see how long it will be before we fight.