Resentment risotto

The problem for me with this particular parting of ways is that he had it simmering like a risotto for months, occasionally tossing in a fresh pinch of silent resentment, and stirring the story of our life with his therapist, but not me.

We weren’t perfect. But I felt like we were in it. Really in it, like, up to our necks in cartoon quicksand marriage, no panicking or thrashing, just chilling, making small adjustments under the surface. I didn’t think we were going under.

We had never discussed divorce. Never. In the last two years, we talked about how crazy it would be to have an empty house, time for just ourselves after always having some combination of up to six kids under our roof. My youngest stepson had just started his college search. We were talking about locum tenens physician positions that he could take, maybe six months working at a clinic in New Zealand, just for kicks, or three months in New York City, I place I had lived but he’d never explored.

There were signs — plenty — that all was okay.

Exactly one year ago, our friend (our, now his) celebrated his birthday with a party bus bar crawl. M and I went and brought Hannah along, which made the whole thing even more fun. Our friend had rented the glowing purple Prince party bus, complete with stripper poles, staggering amounts of booze, and an insane playlist blasting.

My favorite power couple, one of the soccer buddies said to us at some point during the night. M kissed me on the cheek, looking proud.

Later that night, getting ready for bed, I said, That was pretty funny that O called us his favorite power couple.

M looked surprised and a little indignant. Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t he?

When you’re going a little hungry in a marriage, a few words like this are a tasty bite of hope, a little pinky promise that all is on track.

Now I wonder how it was for him, inside the him of him I didn’t know and will never know. Was the resentment risotto simmering in the background of Prince party bus night? Or was he just going between rooms in his head at that point? Did he live in two separate worlds and just hop back and forth? The resentment risotto kitchen where I wasn’t allowed, and the room where we were a power couple, obviously, of course, why wouldn’t we be?

My heart is a mess. The grief comes in waves that feel unsurvivable. This week has been particularly awful. I get mad at myself, because there’s nothing ambiguous here: He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough once January arrived. So it feels idiotic to still wake up with heart pounding and shins sweating and a but maybe in my throat. Because I had no idea he was making risotto without me. He had a head start, and he’s always been a faster runner.

When two people are processing a breakup at the same time, it’s a kinder animal. He’s so far gone, I half expect him to lap me, zipping around the circumference of the earth unbothered.

I feel crazy. I feel totally insane. My husband is gone. My forever house is gone. My art studio is gone. My beloved dog is gone. My cats are gone. My step kids are gone, because what choice do they have? Their world understandably revolves around their dad and their real mom. Blended family was hard enough to keep together when we were in the same place. I love them so much, but nobody tells you how to navigate this.

When it was all crashing down in February and we were all in the Stillwater house, I kept falling apart in the kitchen. My husband’s family tends to keep busy, to outrun big hard feelings. But I was the constant sniffling reminder of the Bad Thing, occasionally passing through rooms like a Victorian ghost.

I had to eat sometimes. So I would skulk down from the attic to grab a few protein bars or a Diet Coke. But the not talking about what was happening and all the busy doing was killing me. Inevitably, I would run into one of my sweet stepsons, and he would say something kind. And I would break down. One time, I was sobbing so hard I started to choke. My middle stepson, now taller than me, wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tight. He put on a cheerful tone, saying, Don’t worry, Jenn. It’s all going to be okay. You’ve been a huge part of my life and you’re not going anywhere.

I cried even harder and tried not to get snot on his nice sweater, one that I had picked out for him. At 55, I knew what he didn’t: that nothing would ever be the same again, and that we were losing everything.

The thing is, I told him, I already know I can’t do it. I can’t go to your college graduation or your wedding if your dad’s going to be there with someone else. I can’t bear it. It would kill me. I love you so much and I will always be there for you, but I won’t be able to survive it.

My middle stepson is the one who was the least sure about me in the beginning. He was really close to his mom, and I understood the strange suspension of loyalty needed to scooch over and make room for me in the car and in his life. But over time we became great buddies. He’d been thinking of going to technical college, learning a trade. But then one day (in the kitchen, everything happened in our big beautiful blue and cream kitchen) he paused by the stovetop, where I was making a batch of the sausage, rice, and peas casserole he liked.

I’ve kind of been thinking I might want to go to college. Like, real college.

Unprompted, unguarded, testing the thought. With me.

This was a kid who had struggled mightily in school in his early years, a kid who didn’t always give himself credit for being as smart as he is.

I said, Tell me more. I kind of love this for you.

And he did. He told me what he was interested in, what he was thinking. I asked (as I often did as a stepmama) if it would be overstepping if I did some sleuthing, put together a list of colleges and universities that had the program he was hoping for, and didn’t require SATs or ACTs. As a stepmama, I learned fast to check in, to see if something was a Real Parent job or one that nobody would mind if I took on.

He was stoked. So we collaborated on a list of schools and what he needed to apply to each one. The two children who got here on my vajayjay bus — despite having a writer and editor as a mother — declined most of my help when it came to writing college essays. So I was expecting the same here. But S wanted my help. We worked on multiple edits of multiple essays. Sometimes, he wouldn’t let his parents read a draft unless I had looked at it first. The whole way, I was right with him — because he let me be. And that kid got into every damn school he applied to. I’m not usually a happy crier, but when he got into his top choice, I was blinking them back.

That’s just one story, with one of the four. I have stories for each of them, stories I don’t know what to do with now. For ten years, I’ve been sharing daily life with these babies. I’ve been there for the good, the bad, the ugly, and the teenage. It has not been a walk in the park, but as Christmas approached, I was feeling more grateful and grounded than ever in our blended family. I thought I knew what it was, what it could do, what it probably couldn’t, and I couldn’t wait for the grandparent phase, when a new generation of cuties would only know me as Grandma Jenn, not as a step- anything. It felt like it would be a great beautiful reward, those years, so hard won and hard fought.

What about the kids? I don't want to do this to the kids. They’ve already been through divorce. We should try for a year at least, let me catch up with you on this. Imagine what good would come from them at least seeing us try for this year, while M is a senior in high school.

I pleaded. The amount of pleading, oy vey. May this level of pleading never find you.

It didn’t matter. That risotto was piping hot, and goddamn it, he was finally ready to sit down and eat.

What? I should stay in something even if I’m not happy, just to please everyone else?

You never told me you were unhappy. Not in those words.

They’ll be fine. They’re all adults. They’ll stay in touch.

I don’t know if they’ll be fine. I know they adore their father, who’s been telling them that he doesn’t believe in marriage anymore, that marriage makes people complacent. And I don't know what that does to kids, even if they are young adults.

When the crash-and-burn started in January, my oldest stepson said to me, I don’t think Dad’s going to blow up the family over this. Don’t worry.

And then a few weeks later, when it was clear that Dad was going to peace out, my oldest stepson gave me a hug, gently, as if I might break. In a bewildered voice, he said, I just don’t get it. You and Dad weren’t perfect but you worked at it. You were couple goals to me.

I thought we were couple goals too, I said. Not perfect. But I really love your dad, and I really love you guys.

I want to tell them, Don’t believe your dad. Marriage can be a wonderful thing, if you have two people willing to do the work.

I might have, in the past, over the soapstone island, where all of our conversations happened. It would have been barely my place then, to insert my opinion, to counter their dad. But now it’s not my place at all.

Now I don’t know what my place is. I just know that everything and everyone I thought of as home is gone. I don’t know how to heal from this. Maybe if he’d let me stir the risotto, let me toss in a handful of my own freshly harvested irritations. Maybe if we’d talked over the risotto, argued about the heat, referred to a cookbook together, maybe I’d be handling this better, with more grit and more grace.

His lawyer makes a point in every communication to refer to our union as a short-term marriage. I have never wanted to badly to slug a total stranger.

I don’t know that anything has ever hurt this much. At one point a month or two ago, I screamed out loud at my ancestors, angels, spirit team, dead dogs — whoever the fuck might be listening. I yelled, I think you think I am stronger than I am. I AM NOT THAT STRONG. I NEED HELP. HELP ME BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE I AM GOING TO DIE.

I might need to yell it again. I still feel like I might die, it hurts so bad. So if you’re on good terms with your whoevers on the other side, and they might be willing to help my whoevers with the heavy lifting that is me, hey, put in a good word, ok?

I hate risotto.