Happy Birthday, Dave

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Twenty-five years ago today, I met a man. It was his birthday. We were both wearing white: he a lab coat, I a tuxedo jacket. Our paths merged and remained fixed for a long time.

We made promises and plans. We talked and traveled, built a home and a circle of friends. The path seemed endless, winding toward a storybook ending of happiness forever.

Then I strayed. For no good reason other than I could, for the only reason that mattered: I needed something else.

He didn’t see. Or if he saw, he didn’t say. My respect for him eroded every minute he failed to catch me and call me out. I hated him for not knowing or showing, hated myself for hating him. Hated the mess I made but couldn’t see a way out of it. The guilt and shame of it took over. My entire life became the lie, and the lie became my identity.

Then I decided to stop. The affair, not the lying. The lying still held everything together.

Then one day I wondered if the building I worked in was tall enough to end my life if I jumped off it. That’s when I knew I really had to stop – the lying, the affair, the marriage, everything.

Three days ago, our divorce became final. This is the first May 10 that we haven’t been together in 25 years. Now it’s just a Thursday.

The rain smells good, the air is fresh, and I am living a life without lies. For the first time in a long time, I can look in the mirror and not see a stranger.

I know this past year has been painful for both of us, but pain is a necessary byproduct of growth, of change. My birthday gift to him this year is not a card or a bouquet of balloons. It’s the truth: We had something really wonderful for a while, and now it’s over. But we both have more wonderful ahead of us, if we can only let go of the past.

Happy birthday, Dave. I wish us both peace.

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