I believed that you would tell me when we'd had enough. I don't know why I thought I'd never get to it on my own. I think there must have been a time when I was younger when I lost my voice. When I gave it up for whomever wanted to lead. Funny how that happens. It was because I wanted safety, maybe? I wanted to know that I could follow, and if I could follow, then how could I ever be left alone? How could anyone deny me? My ideas are your ideas. It was... important to me, to feel safe and small and part of a master plan.
And so I bought the Wedgewood. And the sensible stemware. Enough for extras, for all the parties we were sure to throw. And there the dishware sat, in your mother's Eames era mahogany, used twice in 16 years.
On the day I left, I wanted to smash every piece against the kitchen wall. Let you find it in the morning. But I packed a bag instead. And staggered into the void. No one tells you about the lonely. About how bad it gets. They mention the 7 year itch, while smiling. And they pat you on the shoulder, "you're in it now!" But what they really mean is, you're going to break your own heart a million times over. And it's no one's fault but yours. Because you stood there and watched it happen. You forgot to pay attention. You learned your way in the dark. You skipped the noisy steps. And slipped into your private room. Again. And again. And again. And again.
And wasn't it safe there? For a while?