I made the bed, tucking everything tight and smooth.

The boy and I worked on his Europe trip.

She was cheerful after dance.

The house feels peaceful. And the cat is all over me.

It’s my second-last night in the treehouse, for about 6 weeks. J leaves for Atlanta on Thursday, and I’ll be sleeping most nights in the former conjugal home till he returns mid-April. I’ll take every opportunity to spend an hour (or more) here; it’s only a 15 min drive and it’s on the way to and from work. But I need to admit the fact that I’ve committed to being elsewhere, pretty much full time, for the next while.

It’s been made worse by the fact that L had yet another major fight with her mother last Friday night, so even the every-other-weekend-with-mom plan is blown.

J asked me to come over tonight, to go over the last details (here are the Disneyland tickets, there are the tax papers, put these dr appointments in your calendar), and because he just wanted to see me before he goes. He hugged me tight and told me he loves me. He said over and over how grateful he is for my kindness and generosity. I looked at him and thought: you will never have another wife like me. Knowing he and the chicky-babe are “in love, and everything is great” leaves me wondering why I am doing this.

But I know the answer.

I don’t stop loving just because someone else does. Not that I want him back. I’m past that, and I deserve so much better. But neither can I muster any hate. A friend asks for my help, I’m there.