Moving Out

Over the last couple of days, he's been moving out. Gradually setting up his new life in his new place.

His half of the wardrobe is getting emptier.

Some of our crockery, glasses, cutlery is being emptied from drawers and packed into boxes.

The lovely collage artwork we were given as a wedding present has been taken off the wall.

The first night he slept at his new home, our eldest boy left with him. He's finding it very exciting - he loves helping his dad set up his new place. The novelty of the blow up bed, eating breakfast using a box as a table, opening up new doors and playing in a new backyard.

As they left I couldn't look at him. I didn't want my eldest to see my eyes well up with tears.

I could feel him try to reach out to me a couple of times before he left, but I turned my back. I find myself occasionally saying something hurtful, or blocking out any attempt he makes to reach out as a way of trying to control the situation. To maybe hurt him a little in response for all the hurt he has caused me.

That night we spoke on the phone.
"You know this is really weird for me too" he had said.
I kind of believe him because he doesn't lie. But I find it hard to believe him. He created this situation. I didn't. He has the power in this situation, I don't. He has put me in this situation, and he feels weird? I don't believe it. But if he does, I'm fucking glad.

Over the last couple of days, he's been packing the car, slowly removing traces of himself from the house. Each visit gets easier. And the desire to cut the shirts that still hang in the wardrobe ebbs away a little more.