When Patrick died, I was expected to fall apart. We had been married thirty three years. We had two children and five grand children. We had lived in what many might consider enviable circumstances. There was never a hint of scandal, never an argument, we were polite and kind to each other. In fact, we were considered the perfect couple.
At Patrick's death, from phone calls to the children and friends, to the arrangements for the funeral, and then, through the funeral and after, I remained strong. People commented, (when they thought I couldn't hear) that I was putting up a 'brave front'.
I accepted that designation.
I sat quietly during the service, my children gripping my hand or hugging me, and then at the gravesite, where they clung to me as if they felt I would collapse.
After, when people jammed what had been our house, I was forced to sit and let other serve and greet, and there seemed an endless line of those wishing to pay their respects.
I went through it quietly. Perhaps people commended my 'strength' or my 'stoicism'.
After, before our children returned to their homes with their children, theytried to bring up Patrick related topics. As they began, I would softly say, “I can't speak of these things now...” and leave the room, assumed to cry.
I went on 'bravely' through it all. Then the reading of the Will. There was no 'division' of property, Patrick left all he had owned, to me. He had admitted his intentions years ago, our children expected it. There was no thought of disputing Patrick's decision.
Finally, they returned to their cities, our friends went on with their lives. It took more than a month after the funeral before I could finally get some 'me' space. Finally be free of those who needed to check up on me. Over a month for me to get through the bits and pieces of Patrick's death and have myself.
With all bills paid, all rituals completed, it was time to think of tomorrow, a tomorrow without Patrick.
He had, I admit, been a nice person. He had been likable, somewhat kind. My life with him had been 'perfect', to hear others talk. There was only one slight hitch.
I never loved him. And he never loved me.
You wouldn't notice it, because we were friendly, faithful, and behaved as a happily married couple. Our reality was a secret we maintained. No one knew the truth except us.
I can speak of myself with certainty; I was in love with a man who didn't love me, or want me, or think of me in that capacity. That man was perfect to me. From his appearance to his voice to his nature, I loved him with every atom of my being.
I was hopelessly in love with man who was just as hopelessly in love with a woman I knew and despised.
And that man I had loved, married that woman.
Looking at a photo of them taken at one of the company's picnics or whatever it was, the fact they were in love with each other was obvious. Obvious to me now, but not then.
That was the painful reality. I had never realised that man had not loved me at all. Had I opened my eyes, had I actually looked at the photo, seen how they looked at each other... but I hadn't. Not then.
If Patrick and I stood next to that man and his wife, at any time in our lives, the fact we did not love each other would shout. Patrick instinctively knew that, so we nevertook those 'look fondly at each other' photos. Of all that Patrick and I shared and exhibited, I would say the awareness of how we would appear to others was the most significant factor.
It took me years to appreciate the simple observable truth. Something I could have seen, if my eyes were clear, when I was nineteen.
But my eyes were not clear, my thoughts were jumbled, my comprehension of interactions between people was flawed. So when my beloved married a woman I knew and despised, I had to run. Had to get to some other place where I would not see them.
I couldn't deal with my own blindness. That is the centrepiece. That is the key to my life. If I had suspected he loved someone else, was with someone else, then I wouldn't have dumped every atom my love into him. But I never suspected, never saw any 'sign' and when it happened I nominated myself as the stupidest person that had ever taken breath.