Sophia
Icry. I cry a lot.
I regret going to the fertility clinic and going through with the sperm donation. I miss Damien and Julian. My life narrows to the essentials. I hold it together at work. When I return home, I head straight to my room, shut the door, and cry my eyes out. I skip the gym; I skip my cooking turn. I hide.
By Friday, my entire family has figured out something is wrong. Ben calls, but I swipe it to voicemail. Same with Aurora. Papa calls, and I have never not picked up his call, but this time, I can't face him. I can't face anybody.
I swing from one extreme to another. One minute, I’m convinced I made a mistake breaking up with them; the next minute, I’m telling myself it was the right thing to do.
It was smart to end things before I got in too deep, I think. But even as that thought forms, my heart knows it’s a lie. It's too late.
This is for the best, but it doesn't feel like it. I feel like I've been hollowed out from the inside. The only emotion left is misery.
I drive by the turnoff to Damien's lake house, and I cry. I pass Julian's house on Hill Street, and I cry again. I keep thinking about them. I keep poking at the wound.
On Sunday, I do the unthinkable. I skip family dinner and go for a long drive instead. I head to Taco Gus, get tacos to go, and then drive to the park where Julian and I had lunch. I sit on the same picnic bench. Here, less than a month ago, he spilled marinara sauce on his T-shirt, took it off, and I ogled him shamelessly.
It seems so long ago, and it feels like yesterday.
What are they thinking right now? They've got to be feeling hurt. Bewildered. Or maybe they’re angry with me for taking off without an explanation. Again. Maybe they realize they’re better off without me.
Because I've done it again. Ten years ago, when Mrs. Caldwell fired me, I ran from Damien and Julian.
But this time, it's justified. You heard Damien. You heard him with your own ears.
Or is it?
You didn't bother to ask them for an explanation. You didn't hear Damien’s side.
Ben’s words echo in my mind. When things get intense, I run, and so do you.
I can't keep blaming my biological mother for how fucked up I am. I need to take responsibility. Denise didn’t wreck my life. Mrs. Caldwell didn’t wreck my life either. I did this to myself.
Maybe I should talk to them.
No. Stop. And then what? What are you going to say? That you’re sorry, and that you won’t do it again? Words are cheap. The next time something happens, you'll run again. Stop fucking up their lives. They deserve so much better than you. They have given you unconditional love, and again and again, you've thrown it in their faces. You don't deserve them. Let them move on.
I feel thin and fragile, hollowed out and hopeless.
Ben told me to find a therapist. I told him I couldn't afford it, and I still can't. I’ve put the fertility clinic on my credit card. There have been multiple charges, each of them thousands of dollars. I don't want to total it up.
But I have to do something to change the situation.
A donor, Hunter Driesse, is a therapist at the local hospital. I can't ask him to be my therapist; that would be completely inappropriate. But I don't think Patricia would object if I ask him for a recommendation.
I pick up my phone and dial.
Simon and Andreare waiting up for me when I finally come back home. “You want a beer?” Simon asks.
“No, thank you.”
“You missed dinner,” Andre says carefully. “We can hear you cry. Do you want to talk about what's going on with you?”
He looks so worried. Fresh tears well in my eyes. “I was dating Damien and Julian, and I'm not anymore.”
“What happened?”
I shake my head mutely. “I don’t want to discuss it,” I mumble. Because if I do, I will cry again. Then I flee.