I wake up the morning before Christmas in a full on panic.

Not about the holiday itself mind you.

Years ago my brothers and I stopped exchanging gifts because of the sheer angst and fights the event would cause.

Nope. My fear is entirely based on one frightening thought.

What if he doesn’t leave?

Now that I’ve gotten on the separation train, I’ve been impatiently waiting for it to leave the station.

But the doors are closing, and he’s still not on board.

Funny thing is. He bought the tickets!

So I do what I always do when I’m stressed or a little confused.

I make a list.

I list all of the things I need to pack for the holiday weekend. Including food and clothes and gear needed since I’m going to drive back into the city and right to a freelance gig when I return.

This calms me down a bit, because the only thing I can think about when I’m making a list is the list itself.

Not the half-packed bags of his in the bedroom or the shoes out all over the place, or the general chaos that my house is in when we’re leaving for a trip.

And that’s what it looks like really.

Us packing for a trip.

I stop to think about the last real vacation we’ve taken together. One that required 7 days worth of packing. My hand reflexively flies to my mouth pushing back a sob as I realize that the last real trip we took was

Our honeymoon.

Well, there’s half the problem with this relationship right there.

I make a mental note to bring that up in our couples therapy.

Whenever the hell we get there.

It’s funny, at that moment, I don’t really want him to go, but I hold people to the things that they say.

Especially the things that hurt me.

And he said that he needs space to figure things out and that he would find us a therapist when he makes some more money, which he can’t do if he’s here.

After getting dressed, packing and waiting around for his brother, I look at the bed and it slowly begins to dawn on me.

Next week when I return, I’ll be the only one sleeping in it.

My youngest cat must have sensed something, because right on cue he walks into the bedroom whining. (This cat never meowed, the vet doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him. He only makes noises like a frustrated 18 month old that’s about to speak their first words any day now.)

Said feline sits down and looks up at me curiously, then hops up on the bed next to me and curls into my side purring,  blinking big adorable eyes at me.

And I realize for a fleeting moment, I won’t be alone.

Because I have cats.

*sigh*

I am going to be the middle-aged crazy cat lady with the house near the corner.

I suddenly have the urgent need to not be anywhere near the house.

So I say a silent prayer asking God to strike him dead  make sure that he leaves the house after me safely and I go upstairs and announce…

“I’m leaving. I can’t wait any longer, because you know I don’t like driving in the dark and mom’s expecting me. Please leave the keys on the counter, especially my spare set of car keys and the front door key  and…”

“Are you serious?” he’s angry. I’m not taking the bait.

“About the key? Yes. Because I don’t have a copy and I need to be able to make a new copy for the new tenants if they need it.”

“So you’re not going to wait?”

“I’ve been waiting.”

I wonder if he catches the double-meaning there.

He suddenly softens and takes a long look at me. I start to move away and grab my things.

“Um…I’ll help you get your things to the car.”

“That’s ok. I’ve got it.”

“Please?”

He doesn’t say it sarcastically, in fact, he sounds really really sad.

But since my softer side is still in ICU, I don’t give in.

My mask stays strong all the way out of Brooklyn, through the Holland Tunnel and onto the New Jersey turnpike.

But somewhere around Exit 10, I’m having trouble seeing the road because of all the tears.

I have to pull over.

Twice.

I will the tears to stop but I don’t get to my mom’s until nightfall, (which I hate because I have bad night vision), and as I make my way into the house she looks past me and asks where my husband is.

I say nothing, I just shake my head.

My mom just sighs and looks at me knowingly because she’s my mom, (and because she’s secretly an Omega level mutant with both empathic and telepathic abilities when it comes to her children), then hugs me and rocks me back and forth like she did when I was 5 and I got a boo-boo and says…

“Merry Christmas.”