To my ex’s next girlfriend

Searching for peace. 


La version française de cet article est à retrouver ici.

It has been four months since my husband and I split up. My house is not yet sold. My ex-husband still leave there with half of our furniture. I drop my daugther off there every two week-ends. Every two weeks, I ring the bell of my own house, I say hi to my ex which sounds weird. When I get into the house, I feel like I am a stranger to my own life. I have a glimpse around and can recognize some familiar pieces of furniture, the doormat on which I used to wipe my feet after a hard day at work. Then, I firmly hug my daugther while automatically saying « see you in a couple of days, sweetheart » and I get back into the car. I drive away from my dream house, away from this fairy tale that I built brick by brick by means of huge efforts and hard work: a happy family, warm home, financial comfort, deep and inconditional love. After many weeks, I get used to drive away my own house,  feeling this intense sorrow fading away while pushing the gas pedal.

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Dead Inside

Ca commence ainsi, je gère. Debout 06h30, je lève la petite, je m’adapte à ses hypersensibilités et à sa routine. Tout ça, c’est réglé comme du papier à musique: biberon, habillage, préparer le repas sans allergène pour la cantine, se battre avec la pointe des collants qui gènent dans les bottes. Vingt minutes de trajet, bisou-calin, » à ce soir ma chérie ».

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