Page 33 of Beyond our Forever

And then the rest of the day passes without incident, immersed in the same old routine as always and, with the exception of my husband’s evening ‘visits’, where he doesn’t even get out of the car but just stares at my window in silence, I don’t hear from Bruce.

The next day, I’m no longer surprised to find a bag on the mat, somehow I’ve come to expect it. I can’t deny I find it intriguing and quite exciting, to the point that I want to hurry home to find out what the stranger has come up with.

This time, under layers of red tissue paper, there is a red leather-lined notebook that looks more like a journal.

The gifts are all so different that it’s difficult to establish a pattern, the only thing they all have in common is the color red. It’s always red.

The color of passion, eroticism, desire.

Before opening the notebook, I run my hands over the cover, enjoying the soft texture, ready to discover the mysteries it contains. What will it be this time?

Not much of a mystery though, as on the first page I find a note.

Unburden your sorrows on me

That’s all it says. It’s printed, not hand-written, so I am left with no clues.

As I prepare food for the children and lose myself in the housework, I think again about my problems, all my worries.

Unburden your sorrows on me.

It would be good to have at least one silent confidant, someone I can tell everything to, without feeling judged, without feeling that they want to impose their will on me, without feeling that their opinion counts more than the beating of my own heart.

Unburden your sorrows on me.

Again and again those words echo in my head, until I give up, I fall into the spell. I look for a pen on Bruce’s desk, one that does justice to the beauty of those ivory pages, and I start writing everything that overwhelms me.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I got lost somewhere and I can’t find myself, or maybe it’s that I never had my own identity. I lost myself in others, being what they needed me to be, rather than whatI wanted to be.

Today, at almost thirty-seven, I am in a worse state than ever, forced to start again, aimless and without direction, like a drifting sailboat. Yes, it is my fault. I was the one who made the decision to separate, but I felt I had no choice. I could no longer be with him. I could not breathe in my own home, his mere presence suffocated me. I was drowning in his indifference, the way he looked at me so dispassionately, creating a void that we did not know how to fill.

I’m angry, hurt, broken. Broken like the promises he made, but forgot to keep.

I’m immersed in my writing until the alarm sounds, breaking the spell, and the little time I had for me is over. Now it’s time to put my mother hat back on, because my children are waiting for me.

???

The next day, I find a tall, thin bag, black as usual with the same red tissue paper, and inside I find a bottle of red wine waiting for me. I open it in the same place as the other gifts, continuing the ritual, ignoring Emilia’s calls along with any other distractions. I decided to do this by myself, without interference from anyone. Why should I care what other people say or think, when they’re not there for me when I need to be heard without judgment.

But that’s what the diary does for me. In the short time I’ve had it, it’s already become a tool not only for escaping, but also for healing as I examine my thoughts and feelings.

As I search inside the bag, something falls onto the granite counter.

To help you with the writing.

Drink me.

The name on the wine label seems strangely familiar to me, but my memory is so bad that it takes me a while to figure out why. It’s not until I search the internet for the winery that produces it that the memories come flooding back to me like an avalanche.

No, it cannot be.

It can’t be him.

He doesn’t care anymore.

Chapter 10

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