I hate that you’re dead.

I hate that I have the route to the cemetery, to your grave, memorized.

I hate that “widow” is part of my identity now and that every time I fill out paperwork I have to check that stupid box, reminding me of what you did and what I am.

I hate that my children don’t have their father.

I hate that you left me and our children to bear the burden of all the confusion, anger and sadness.

I hate that everyday that will bring me and our children joy will also be tainted with the sting of grief.

I hate that my child’s vocabulary regularly includes words like “dead/die, ashes, funeral, ect,.”

I hate that I have to carefully skirt around the question of how you died in front of our son so that I can protect and preserve what’s left of his innocence.

Most of all, I hate that one day I’m going to have to tell him “Dad died from something called suicide.”

I hate that I’ll have to do it a second time with our daughter.

…and here I was dreading the sex talk.

I’ll love you forever but right now- I hate you.

(P.S. Still totally dreading the sex talk.)

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