Sometimes I miss her a lot.
I don’t know why. At the end, I gave her far more than I had to if she would sign something saying she’d leave me alone and never again attempt to make contact with me. That’s how bad it had gotten.
For the longest time, the mere act of thinking about her made my stomach turn itself inside out. The way she treated me. The way she hurt me. The way she actually believed that I was the horrible one. The way she believed it was all my fault. My undoing. My acts. My deeds. My real and ugly self finally shining through.
It made me come real close to hating her, though I don’t think I ever truly did.
And don’t get me wrong. I have no tainted memories that lack personal culpability. I don’t delude myself that I didn’t have a very real part of the demise of what once was so beautiful between us. On the contrary. I know that half of it was me. Not more. Not less. We were both so dysfunctional in that relationship that neither of us can fairly take or place more than half the blame on the other.
But she did. And even worse, she really believed it.
And that hurt more than anything because I know that she’s a really beautiful person. Most of the time. I believe that I’m a beautiful person. Most of the time. We just didn’t work and never would. Why couldn’t she just believe that? Why couldn’t she give that to me?
And why, these two and a half years later, do I still miss her sometimes?
Why do I secretly and occasionally think about meeting up with her again? As time dims the pain of the past, why do I find myself thinking such positive thoughts about her? Why do I find myself pushing away every happy memory before those memories make me do something stupid… like call her.
Why do I miss her? Wife #2.
I don’t know.
Maybe I miss my stepdaughter. Hell, I know I miss my stepdaughter. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t think of her, and all the work I put into forming that bond. I still love that child more than I’ve ever let on.
But that’s not it. I know because when I find myself missing my ex, I think only of her. Missing her daughter is something different. Something I permit myself to feel as often as I need to so I know that’s not it.
So why do I miss her?