Four

Our son turns four on Monday.

Four.

You were only here for his first birthday. I have done two, three, and now I will be doing four.

I don’t get it. I will never get it.

I understand you were angry at me. I understand you felt burdened by life, by your job, by the kids, by your parents, by me, by yourself. I understand you felt the burden of yourself. I understand you were very angry at me and at you.

But you had kids.

They are here. They are part of you and you cut off your oxygen so you would never see them or hear them or talk to them again.

He was a baby. You loved him. I don’t get it. I will never get it.

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t understand how it is that he has a daddy but he has no fucking memories of that daddy. I have to explain it to him, in words a four year old can understand.

He was a baby. He just wanted you to hold him. He still wants you to hold him. Sometimes he asks me if he can grow into a baby so he can be held again. I know what he is talking about. He wants to be a baby so you will come back.

You won’t come back.

He wants you to come back for his birthday party. He is turning four.

You won’t.