It’s been exactly one week since my divorce. It still doesn’t feel real.

I had a heinous week at school and today, for some reason, I had a lot of children slip up and call me Mrs. Wren. I try not to get upset at them since that’s what I asked them to call me the first day they met me. They, too, are a product of divorce, having to get used to calling me something else. I just think about that scene in Sex and the City where the waiter calls her by her would-have-been husband’s last name. Perhaps I am my own version of Carrie Bradshaw.

My sister as well reminds me. She’s 5 years old and has made it a habit to ask about him. “Where is ***? When is he coming here?” We haven’t found the right way to tell her. “He’s away working and will be gone a long time.” “But you need to tell him that he needs to come back.” Sometimes I just want to tell her that I tried that and it didn’t work. As the days pass I know she will ask about him less and less. Hoping the same will go for my heart.

I’m such a torturous dweller. I need to break myself of that — of revisiting everything everyday, of thinking about what was supposed to be instead of what is. Things happen throughout the day and I want to grab my phone and tell him all about them and I have to fight myself. In the blink of an eye, everything has changed. Yes his stuff is still around, some in boxes, in bags, and hanging in my closet.

Been doing 1,000,001 things as well for the documentary (Preventable). The work is never ending. My focus gets swayed by my wandering mind and I have to keep kicking it back into place.

I’m just exhausted. But hey… it’ll make for one subject-filled memoir.

I look into this crowded room
I search for your eyes in every face
Your laugh in every lung
Your touch in every hand

But you’re not here

And the room is empty.

Love, B. R. Wren