I don't expect anyone to reply, I just wanted to get this out somewhere. I have namechanged as the person this relates to knows my usual NN. I just wanted to write my stuff down somewhere so I can sleep better before getting on with tomorrow.
A letter to my partner:
Today is our middle child's birthday. Yes, we have a middle child. You may not remember, for to you he was merely a miscarriage, something to forget about and move on from. You never birthed him. I did. He is three years old today. Old enough to start nursery. I'd bet my life that he's gorgeous, a little heartbreaker. You were so disengaged from the whole situation, that it took you over a month to know I had named him. Our baby boy. I still don't understand how you thought it was okay to ask me to wash your clothes, or allow me to continue making dinner that night. That soup was definitely more tears than stock. You didn't even know I'd cried.
A week later I had a breakdown, I truly started to grieve for that little life that would never be. Do you remember? I spent a whole day crying uncontrollably, screaming into a pillow. For this was not the first experience of miscarriage we had while trying to conceive, but it was the latest stage we had ever made it to. I was terrified, absolutely terrified of being told I would never carry a child again. You did nothing to console me. I needed you.
I relapsed into depression. I never ate, never showered, never left my bed for two weeks. You looked after the oldest (at that point only) child. When I arose two weeks later, the house was a mess. Our child had existed on tinned food and toast, I knew this because those tins were everywhere, along with the dishes they has been served on.
I cried. Somehow you never noticed that either. Then I cleaned. I barely wanted to stand upright, but I cleaned. It took me six and a half hours while you were at work. The house was sparkling. When you came home you said: "oh you're up, it's 4 o'clock, are you not getting dressed today?"
No. No I'm not.
I make you sound like a terrible man, you're not, and I know you'd be mortified to think you've hurt me like this, which is why I could never tell you. I'm not even sure you'd understand what exactly it was you'd done wrong, without me spelling it out.
Today is also four years to the day since your affair began. No I know, you never went off to sleep with another woman. You did however come to the conclusion that you may not be as heterosexual as you once thought. Instead of discussing this rationally with me, you took it upon yourself to start an emotional, and somewhat graphically sexual relationship with a man online.
I know you maintain that this was not cheating, because you had never "done anything". I think you genuinely believe that. But you are so wrong. You still don't know that I knew for three months before I told you. That I did all I could to make your life easy and prepare myself for you "coming out". When I finally asked you 3 months later you told me it had only been a week. One week. I'm a lot of things but stupid is rarely one of them.
You have no clue what that did to me. I do not even believe there are any words in the English language to explain that feeling. I soldiered on, trying to support you, even at your insistence that you were nothing less than 100% heterosexual.
I have never loved you the same way since. There was a point where I thought we might be okay. Between the affair and the miscarriage. But I was so horribly wrong.
You have no idea that these two things alone, in a string of six years are the reason our relationship no longer exists. You think I got "over" them years ago. I never. I won't. I am under no illusion that we will ever be fixed.
If it weren't for our oldest child, and his disabilities, I would not still be here. I haven't told you I love you in over a year, because I don't. I haven't said so truthfully in 3 years.
I do not pretend to love you, but you have evolved in to a wonderful father, and despite your lack of understanding, you are mostly a good friend.
We will never be what we once were, never ever again. But I no longer wish for it either. I, at least for now, have no desire to be in another relationship, and that is a helpful factor in my decision to stay. But I'm not staying for you, I never would, I'm staying for our children. I'm staying for me, because I choose to, not because I have to.
Today I'll smile, I'll cook your dinner and I'll have our children excitedly bring out your birthday cake. I won't be bitter about the past, because it's too late to change it. And you'll forever remain blissfully unaware that what is one of the happiest days for you, is one of the most difficult for me, at least for now.