He was supposed to propose. That was all I wanted.
A ring. It didn’t have to be fancy, or expensive, I knew we weren’t a wealthy couple, so it was fine. It would have been fine. Silver, rather than platinum. Lab diamonds instead of mined. Half a carat instead of one. I was willing to accept something small, he just had to give me something.
I don’t ask for much, but that was a non negotiable.
It had been a tough few years, you see. I had loved him, with everything and he just threw it back in my face again and again. It never seemed to end. I would love him, no matter what he did, and no matter how many mistakes he made, but nothing was ever good again.
I forgave him for Carla, and Abigail too. I went to the chemists and picked up his meds when he got the clap. I forgave him when his little bout of sickness screwed up my insides.
God, I wanted a baby. I had wanted to be a million things since I was a little girl, but being a mother was my biggest dream, and he stole that from me, but I forgave him.
It could be okay, if he just got that one little thing right.
I could forgive the betrayals, and I could forgive being barren. I just wanted to feel like it had all been worth it.
I had made us a beautiful dinner, and worn such a beautiful dress. Blue, just as he preferred. Drenched in his favourite perfume. I washed my hands again and again, moisturising my fingers and painting my nails such pretty colours. I couldn’t have looked more perfect, and as he finished that last bite of succulent lamb, our eyes met, and I thought that the moment had come at last.
He just asked for pudding. I looked perfect. I WAS perfect, and my finger was waiting for the perfect shimmer, but his mind was on food.
Another betrayal.
Another bad night.
Another crack in my heart, and nothing to show for it.
I made him some ice cream, exchanging a glance with the cupboard under the sink, wondering if bleach could pass as ice cream sauce long enough for him to eat it.
No such luck, and no such bravery from me. He ate his untainted ice cream, swallowing every spoonful with a smile, and then he headed to bed while I washed the dishes and scrubbed the kitchen.
The dishes could never be clean, because I washed them with dirty hands. I was so cruel to myself, watching him walk all over me every day, wishing and waiting for a ring, some kind of false promise, to the girl who had nothing.
I needed to have something. There was no other way. I could never be clean again until I had my ring.
I washed the dishes, with empty fingers, falling to the floor when they were done and dying a little, with wide, weeping eyes.
I had given him so many chances, and still, there I was giving him more. Falling asleep as he snored beside me, and then awaking the next day for more of the same.
Nothing was said of the ring, or all of my tarnished dreams, and I waved him off to work with a packed lunch and a kiss on his cheek.
I tried not to think of the ring. It hurt too much, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t get it off of my mind, no matter what I did. I saw little circles everywhere, wondering when my finger would be encased. I searched for the shimmer I so desperately needed, but it could never come, not to my dirty hands, who had hurt me so deeply.
Everyone said that you have to love yourself. All the self help books, and the group therapy I would lurk in. I had tried. I loved myself in his favourite blue dress, and the perfume he always complimented. I loved myself when I smiled through my tears and said “It’s okay. We can get through this.” I loved how much I loved him, but if I were to be truthful, drowning in the hard light of day, I loved him so much more than I could ever love myself.
The dress was not for me, or the make up and the magical evening of romance. The beautiful dinner where I savoured each bite, careful to eat slowly and watch for the special moment.
It would never come.
I loved him, and he loved how I took care of him. He loved to be looked after, with packed lunches and untainted ice cream. He loved to sleep late on weekends, knowing that I would clean the dishes, with my dirty hands, dishonouring myself again and again.
I decided to try and love myself. Standing in that same kitchen where his failure caused me to crumple, and washing the dishes again. I scrubbed them until the painted patterns bled into the water, and I scrubbed my hands with the scourer, smiling down at the rusty water at the clean, clear skin on my fingers.
A ring would come, but for now, my hands were clean. I watched the suds and the scarlet of my sweetheart dance down the drain and for the first time in years, I felt free.
I got my ring, in the end. Not from a man, but from my own pocket. You see, it wasn’t so hard, and if he could have just tried, maybe things would have been different.
Silver, rather than platinum. Lab diamonds instead of mined. Half a carat instead of one.
It looks so lovely on my clean hands, but sometimes, I still think of him.
It’s been months, and I should be over it, but it’s like it happened just yesterday.
Valentine’s day.
My bloody valentine.
Staring with such regret from the back of the fridge, as if I could have handled it any other way.
Most of him is miles away, but his face, once my reason for living, must remain with me.
He needs to see what he has lost, and one day, when I find someone else to love, he will see what he could have become.
Sincerely, Jennifer x 