Our divorce was final and she’d won the home, the home that’d been passed down to me from my parents, the home I’d spent the last twelve years working to keep in shape, the home she invited men to behind my back, the home she’d use our fake relationship as an excuse to keep.
Hamed is her fiancé, announced before the judge’s ink from our divorce dried. I had nowhere to live, no one to turn or hold onto through the turmoil so begged her to let me stay in the basement until I could get myself together, whatever that means. I lost my job because I couldn’t cope with the stress of officially being quit and not understanding what I did wrong to warrant this fate.
The icing on the cake is that Hamed is in stage four colon cancer, and both my ex and I take care of him along with a hospice nurse that drops in every other day. His hospital bed is in the middle of ‘our’ bedroom, and every time I walk in it feels like I’ve died and returned to an unimagined purgatory from which there is no escape.
I live a Groundhog’s Day life and no one would believe me if I tried to explain. Maybe today is the day they will die.