Letter to Jim

Jim,

You’ve called me four times today, asking me to forgive you. Really, do you expect me to forgive what you have done? It’s not enough to let me suffer in peace, you just want to make yourself feel better. It’s not about the pain anymore. And it isn’t about how you want me to feel. It seems to be more about how you want to feel. You want to be forgiven, and I can’t help you with that. Not yet.

When I learned you were sneaking around with her, it damned near broke my mind. You knew I trusted you, and would be waiting at home. I guess I made it easier on you by not getting out and trying to track you down when you began stopping at the bar, but apparently you didn’t think folks would talk, or what they would think.

I just want to let you know, it was your friend that came and told me about her. Bob stopped by using the excuse that he wanted to borrow the leaf blower, and since Bob wouldn’t lift a finger to keep his lawn growing, I was ill at ease with him standing in the doorway. He kept looking behind me, as if he were trying to think of the right words to get into the house. I didn’t realise that what he had to say would be best said behind closed doors. I think he thought I would break down and cry and he could comfort me. Dammit, you acting like a stud put out to pasture made him think I needed some physical attention myself. One of the reasons I am so mad at you right now is that you even have ‘friends’ like that.

I won’t be answering the phone anymore. I don’t want it to be you calling, and I don’t want to know that it wasn’t you when it rang last time. I can’t take the idea of meaning so little to you that you would even think of being with someone else. I don’t want to hear ‘she didn’t mean a thing to me, Baby, honest’ because if she didn’t, why would you risk our life together?

I’ve talked to a lawyer and he said I can get half of everything we own, plus alimony. While we aren’t rich, he does think I can recieve enough income from this to not have to work. I don’t know why he thought I would want to stay home and stare at all these memories, but the idea of facing the public, all our relatives, and the folks at church… it does seem better than working right now.

I am just so embarassed! Why I should feel that way when it was you that acted the pig is beyond me, but still I feel ashamed for trusting you.

I’ve placed your clothes in your old truck, along with the wedding pictures and my ring. I pulled it around and parked it at the curb, lit one of your cigarettes, and sat it down on them. I don’t even care if it burns up, but it would be the most warmth I’ve felt in a long long time.

My car is in the garage, motor running.

I’m still debating whether to go and sit in it.

Mary-

ps. I don’t love you anymore.

Letter to Jim

Debbie Irwin

Odessa, United States

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Artist's Description

Trust broken. No one wins.

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