This will be a difficult letter to write and no doubt to read. I am going to tell you about my wedding. I have only been married once, and you and I both know I married the wrong woman.
I married the woman whom I abandoned you for. I knew before the day that I was making a mistake. For someone who is used to making decisions, decisive decisions, bold decisions, important decisions, I was like a rabbit in the headlights. I was inert. I was catatonic. I was frozen in fear.
It was April 2002, a little over three years since you had left these shores. The day was perfect. The morning was brisk and clear, as the hours passed the late morning witching hour arrived. The were no clouds in the sky. A faint breeze troubled the autumn leaves, and the guests milled in as I awaited my fate.
I worked the room like I was running for office, chatting to a family member here, laughing with an old friend there. Outwardly I was calm, confident, and very much in control. My wife to be? Well, as was her bent, she was late. I was not surprised; it fairly summed her up. I received a message that she was here and ready to proceed but, her sister was now detained. She was detained despite the fact that I had hired her family a cottage on the grounds of where we were to have our reception, no more than five kilometres from the site of the nuptials.
I had spoken to the guests, made light with the minister, joked with the bridal party and then a moment of silence descended upon me. There I was standing alone in the church, yet surrounded by people minutes away from signing the contract of marriage. I looked down the aisle and up at the stained glass window atop the eastern side the building, and in my moment of self reflection I thought of you. I knew it was you who should soon be by my side. I knew it was you who should be sharing my vows. Alas the moment was lost, my cowardice returned and it was on with the show.
We both know I went on to marry that woman. She proved my undoing in more ways than one. But as much as I would love to blame her, I cannot for it was at my own feet that the blame was to lay. I was the one who had forsaken you for her. I was the one who could not wait, and who did not communicate. It was and still is my cross to bear.
My life slowly unraveled from that point on. It was the moment that all hope was lost. The moment I lost my moral and ethical compass. It was meant to be the happiest day of my life. It was the moment when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had truly lost you.
From Sir With Love
I am really struggling how to respond to this letter. I have so many mixed emotions running through my head right now. I know one of the things I wondered about all those years was whether or not you had married. I also questioned if you had children, how your parents were, and if you were happy. We mentioned and discussed these in earlier letters.
I am truly at a loss when it comes to your wedding day. It hurts like hell to know the place where you were married. It makes me realize that I was undoubtedly out of your life. I know you say I was not forgotten, but it doesn’t feel that way. There is no way I could have married in a place that meant so much to both of us – a place that reminded me strongly of you. I would have honored and treasured your memory, our memory.
That cottage you rented for your in-laws to stay in was our quaint cottage. I wonder which of your endearing in-laws slept in the bed we broke. (Of course the bed could have been a different one, or in the very least repaired.) How charming to think they slept in the bed where we made love, in the room where we made love, and bathed in the bathroom we shared. I don’t know what to say or think about all of this.
You were in total control of that day. You were in charge of your decisions. You made your choice. You could have walked away. You could have decided that you didn’t want to be with her. You could have found someone else – any one – with whom you could have been happy. As you stated on another blog of yours you dated many smart and beautiful women, were successful, and you married the woman you loved. Your actions tell me that I was a mere speck on your memory wall, and I have a hard time believing otherwise.
I expect the only thing left for me to say here is I am sorry. I am genuinely sorry that you did not find happiness in your decisions. I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to have joy. I am just so dreadfully sorry.
©2014 Darling and Sir