When I walked away from my marriage, a life of new possibilities sprang to life. I was free of restraints, my own and hers.
I chose where to reside, whom to socialize with, potential romantic entanglements and, importantly, to gladly unleash my vices.
Nicotine, alcohol, drugs and flirtations could make up for all that I’d lost, I was certain. And while the material quality of my life dipped, recovery was predicted.
In the 11 years since, I returned to acting, helped disabled raptors, roomed with my feline familiars. It’s satisfying. But the tally included two sons who cut me off and the near loss of a step-son whose kids I worshipped.
I couldn’t attend their holidays or important events like birthdays because loyalty went rightly to their grandmother, my wife. I became a spectator at the boys’ sporting events. Nothing more than elation, loud cheers and a quick hug.
The bitterness of missing so much is harsh. I surrendered so many things. This begs a simple question: was the loss of so many potential memories worth it?
I’ll never know.
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