I am still angry. Not at him, though. At her.
So very much at her.
She was always this distant speck of mild concern. Someone who could send him into a tailspin with a mere few words. Which were usually about money she needed.
I knew he didn't talk much, but what I didn't know was how little she listened. How clear that became in April. That month of pain so sharp I couldn't breath with it. Of loss so deep I still can't see the bottom.
I keep trying to understand what gives her the ability to command the last vestiges of him. To literally throw away pieces of him. To disgregard so callously those who have loved and treasured him. Even when he was at his worst, even when he purposely lashed out and distanced himself with cruelty. Isn't that what makes a family?
I suppose she is just following his lead. He callously disregarded us and left in a horrible manner, but him I forgive. Would always forgive, could always forgive, because I knew what lived beneath the depression. The illness that caused him to be blind to those around him. Created such a world of isolation that he felt there was only one way to escape.
But what is her excuse? Grief? Grief causes people to act in bizarre ways, I know. I think the part that keeps coming back and keeping my anger alive is that April seemed to be less about him and more about her.
About how she was perceived, deceived and treated. Nothing about celebrating the life of her son. Letting a man she knew he loathed wear his clothes and speak at his funeral. Write his obituary. The obituary that described someone I barely knew. That man didn't exist except in her head.
I keep writing obituary after obituary. Wake up with it half finished in my head and I complete it on the way to work. Every morning. I need to write it out of myself, but a part of me is loathe to even let that go. I need to. His birthday is coming up. Maybe that will be my last present to him.