My mother and Bruce were amazing. They pitched in financially whenever they could. They also took care of Justin when I needed a breather. They often took Justin for a night over the weekend. When Justin got older, they contributed to his hockey fund, helping pay for equipment and uniforms, membership fees, and so on. I’ll always be grateful for their help. I realize a lot of single moms don’t have that kind of support from their own parents.
For the first two years of Justin’s life, he and I lived in an apartment complex a few minutes away from my mom and Bruce. Our first-floor, two-bedroom apartment was small but cozy. It was just the two of us, so we didn’t need much room. Outside of the questionable plumbing, the cheap aluminum window blinds that always bent, and the multiple areas of peeling paint throughout the apartment, it was perfect. It was home.
After I moved into my own apartment, Jeremy started coming around a lot. He was there so much, he started to leave things behind. A toothbrush. Some clothes. Toiletries. Spending the night turned into spending a weekend. Before too long he was living with us.
I never intentionally calculated on us being together. Sure, it was something I had secretly wanted, but only if his lifestyle changed. Looking back, I was so naïve. I allowed the relationship to progress by way of shutting my eyes and hoping that everything would magically work out between us. That we would be a happy family. An adoring, loving, functional family. Just like on TV. I never addressed the reality of what it meant for us to be together. As a matter of fact, we never even discussed us being together. It was an unaddressed assumption.
Though I had recommitted my life to God, I had still not committed my sexuality to Him just yet. Jeremy and I had been dating on and off for years, and I didn’t know how to shift from being intimate with him to not. It would take time for me to address that part of my life. I was, however, still heavily involved in my church, attending Sunday services, youth group, and Bible study.
As weeks went by, the delusion that had blinded my good judgment started fading. It was obvious Jeremy had no intention of giving up his partying habits. He would stay out all night and sometimes even have his buddies over to the apartment to play cards and pound back some beers. The truth slapped me in the face like a bucket of ice water.
In the wee hours of one morning, I heard Justin wailing. He was up again for the umpteenth time. I could barely keep my eyes open from another night of only three often-interrupted hours of sleep. Jeremy wasn’t even home yet. As I stumbled into our son’s room, I knew at that moment I couldn’t stay in a relationship with Jeremy. Not because I didn’t love him, but because he wasn’t ready to change. I was disappointed in myself. I was so stupid. Why hadn’t I even talked with him about what it meant for us to be together—together as a couple and, more importantly, together as new parents?
I’d had it. The next morning I told Jeremy to move out. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I admitted to him. “I’m sorry.” We argued for a while and he left. I didn’t hear from him for a couple of weeks.
The next time Jeremy called was the day I wondered if pigs really did fly. He was calling from rehab, where, he told me, he had found Jesus. And he wanted to talk to me about God.
His announcement was breaking news, but I was suspicious. I knew Jeremy. Was this a ploy to get me back? Time would tell.
Jeremy and I began spending every Sunday morning at church. We prayed regularly and even went to Bible study. I was amazed. Jeremy was not the same man he was when he skipped out on me during Lamaze class. This was a new and improved Jeremy, a man that I had hoped would one day exist. My guard started weakening a few weeks into his newfound faith. One Sunday in the middle of a church service, he asked me to go outside for a walk. Jeremy held my hand and looked pensive. He turned toward the sky and asked, “Why doesn’t everyone know about God? How come they don’t know how amazing He is?” It’s one of the sweetest memories I have.
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that his transformation was authentic. His attitude and behavior were different than they had been in the weeks before. While our past was filled with futile promises of him changing, now it was actually and finally happening before my eyes. Jeremy was sweeter, more thoughtful, more kind and gentle. Best of all, he was more consistent than he had ever been.
So Jeremy was back in our lives and back in my apartment. He got rid of my secondhand couch and replaced it with an old one his mom had given him. Together we bought a beautiful wooden kitchen table with a built-in bench.
As first-time parents, Jeremy and I couldn’t take our eyes off Justin. I melted at the slightest hint of a smile or a gurgling laugh. I loved how his tiny hands reached out for me, his mama. As I held Justin and pressed my nose against his sweet face, I disappeared into that distinct baby smell. He was a gift. He was entrusted to me. He was my life.
Our pastor eventually caught on to our living situation. (We never tried to hide it from anyone; we just didn’t volunteer the information.) He pulled us aside after church one day and said, “We love you guys so much. We know you’re living together, and since you already have a baby, I want to encourage you to think about getting married. It’s the right thing to do.”
Later that day Jeremy looked at me and asked, “So whaddya think? Wanna get married?” There was as much romantic sentiment in that casually thrown out question as in asking if I wanted a turkey sandwich. Still, I said yes. As unromantic as the proposal was, I wanted to marry Jeremy. We set the date for October 15, 1994, just a few short months later.
We went to a store to pick out a ring together. Since he never even officially proposed, he never got down on one knee and gave it to me. The engagement was nothing like I had dreamed about since I was a little girl.
When I was getting my wedding dress altered, I stared in the mirror. I imagined the walk down the aisle, and tears streamed down my face. I didn’t foresee myself feeling cherished or special, the way I should feel on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life.
We had a couple of premarital counseling sessions at our church. The counselors quickly came to the conclusion we weren’t ready to commit to marriage. We didn’t need them to tell us that. The evidence was blatant, though I didn’t want to admit it. We were still so broken and hadn’t dealt with all of our individual issues. So our relationship was never truly healthy.
Both Jeremy and I had a lot of living to do on our own before we could even think about committing to each other. But we didn’t know it. I was desperate for us to work, and Jeremy was busy trying to work out his sobriety and his own issues.
I was also growing in my faith, but I had a lot of rough edges. It would take years to sand and soften some of them. It would also take time to curb some of my bad habits. I still had a lot of major changes to make. I struggled with smoking, and I had so much anger pent up from my past and in particular the years of sexual abuse. I ended up taking a lot of it out on Jeremy. I admit I was notorious for picking fights with him over some of the dumbest things.
The beginning of the end came one night when Jeremy was supposed to meet me at Bible study. An hour into the meeting, he still wasn’t there. After the closing prayer, there was still no sign of my fiancé. I went home, put Justin to bed, and got ready for bed myself. Still no Jeremy.
Around midnight, I lay in bed flipping through the channels on TV, distracting myself from entertaining worst-case scenarios. Maybe he got into a car accident? Or something happened to his mom? In the middle of another infomercial for another useless product, I finally heard the front door open.
As soon as Jeremy walked into the bedroom, I could smell the booze.
“Where were you?” I asked, aware of the obvious. I was upset, but more so disappointed. He had done so well, staying sober for months. I was genuinely concerned. Why had he slipped up? “What happened, Jeremy?”
Jeremy was silent, taking his boots off and going through the motions of getting ready for bed. My disappointment quickly escalated to suspicion when he didn
’t respond to any of my questions. He was too quiet for his own good. I knew something was up and began to feel anxious.
I jumped to a conclusion. With sarcasm peppered with spite, I asked, “What? Did you cheat on me?”
Jeremy didn’t say a word. The quieter he was, the louder the truth. I took my accusations a step further.
“What? After all this time, you cheat on me? Are you kidding me?” I jumped out of bed, ready for a knock-down, drag-out fight.
I finally blurted out, “So go ahead, tell me. What was her name?” I shot off name after name of girls we knew. He growled “No” after each one. Except for one particular name.
I said the name again. No response. Jeremy’s silence said it all.
I was stunned. I knew for a fact he wasn’t even attracted to and certainly didn’t have feelings for this woman. “You cheated on me with her? You purposely sabotaged our family, your engagement with the mother of your child, with someone you don’t even like?”
My head pounded. I sat on the edge of the bed swimming in emotions—sadness, anger, confusion. I stormed my way into the living room, taking deep breaths to calm myself down. Jeremy followed, trying to pull me closer to him with each step. He was finally able to grab me into his arms, his face pressed against my flushed cheek, rocking back and forth while holding on to me for dear life. The reality of the mistake began to make its way into Jeremy’s heart. I tried to wiggle free as he poured out his apologies. Over and over the violins played while he told me how sorry he was and what a stupid thing he had done. “Please, please. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
“I gotta go for a walk,” I said, finally breaking free from his strong grip.
I ran out of the apartment to get some air, ignoring Jeremy’s voice calling after me from the door. I don’t remember if I put on a jacket. My heart was racing as I jogged down the sidewalk of the apartment complex. I was fuming. How could he do this? I passed one block. And now of all times? I ran past a few more. The release of energy was helpful, but it didn’t push the elephant out of the room. What was I going to do? I needed to talk to someone, but who? I didn’t have many friends.
I found a pay phone by a convenience store and called our babysitter, a girl just a few years younger than me (who a week later would end up sleeping with Jeremy). I vented for a few minutes while she patiently listened and consoled me. After I hung up the phone, I knew I still wasn’t ready to go back home. There was one more person I had to call: the woman Jeremy had fooled around with that night.
The phone rang a few times before she picked up. I was calm. Cool. Collected. Ready to say . . . what? I hadn’t a clue.
“Hello?”
When I heard the “other woman’s” voice, the anger came rushing back. I verbally tore into her like a tornado ripping through a house made out of sticks. I called her every name in the book. “Do you feel good about yourself now?” I chided. “Do you feel like a winner? You destroyed every hope of happiness I had. You broke up a potential marriage. This wasn’t just a casual relationship; we were engaged to be married. So thank you. I hope that makes you feel like a real woman.”
She was quiet. I didn’t give her much of a chance to respond. I continued my attack for the next minute or so. Then somehow, in an instant, the conversation turned. I started to feel bad about how I was treating this woman and how abusive my behavior was.
I took a deep breath and quieted my temper. I paused for another moment. “You might not be sorry,” I began, calmer now. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m going to choose to forgive you. I don’t want to, but I know it’s the right thing to do.”
I hung up the phone following our exchange and walked some more. As the dazzling full moon lit my way, I thought about what I should do. Frankly, I didn’t know. A part of me still wasn’t ready to let go. Deep down in my heart, I wanted my relationship with Jeremy to work. I wanted to marry the father of my child. That was the way it was supposed to be, and that was what I wanted.
When I got back home, I told Jeremy we should take time apart to think. He didn’t have a place to go, so I let him stay in my apartment. I packed a few things the next morning, and Justin and I went to spend a few weeks with my mom.
When Jeremy and I separated, we were deep into the planning stages for the wedding. The invitations were sent out. We had the flowers. I had bought my dress. We already had the money from our buck and doe (or stag and doe) party, a Canadian wedding tradition for an engaged couple. Invited guests purchase tickets to attend the nuptial fundraiser and enjoy a couple hours of drinking, eating, and playing games.
Even with all signs pointing toward the obvious end of the relationship, I wondered if there was any way Jeremy and I could salvage the wedding. I know. I was nuts. And blind. There’s no other way around it; I was desperate. It’s what kept me oblivious to the signs that screamed, “Run,” “Leave,” “Chalk up your losses and call it a day.”
Almost a week later, while at my mom’s house, I got a call a little after midnight. I knew it couldn’t be good. No one called the house past ten o’clock.
“Hi,” said the voice on the other end of the telephone. I recognized it immediately. Even from that sole syllable, I knew Jeremy had been drinking and his alter ego Jack had taken over.
“Hey,” I said, still groggy from sleep.
Jeremy’s speech sounded a bit slurred. “I just wanted you to know who I’m sleeping with in your bed.” Pause. “Here she is.”
A woman got on the phone sounding puzzled. I could tell she didn’t know what Jeremy was up to. I recognized her voice too. It was a girl who’d been one of my best friends growing up.
I saw red. Rage ripped its way to the surface. I felt so betrayed. My heart was on its knees, begging me to do something, to end the insanity once and for all. I had tried to be the bigger, more mature person and had uprooted my life to let Jeremy stay in my apartment after he had just been unfaithful. And he had the audacity to cheat on me again, this time in my own home. In my very bed.
I dropped the phone to the ground, the echo of the dial tone bouncing off the walls. The anger finally shoved me into motion. Go. Go. Go now! I ran into my mom’s bedroom. “Mom, I gotta go. Please, you gotta take me!”
She panicked, not knowing what was going on, and practically fell out of bed. Stumbling over her own feet while pulling on a pair of sweats, she stuttered, “What? Where? What’s happening?”
I let it all out, telling her what had just happened. She didn’t hesitate for a second. She pulled herself together and drove me to my apartment. I hopped out of the car before she even came to a complete stop. I booked it down the hallway, my legs spinning like an old-school cartoon character, and threw the apartment door wide open. This was my home. Mine.
The first thing I saw was Jeremy, two other guys, and my former best friend on the couch. Beer bottles were strewn all over the living room. They had been partying. I tried to stay calm. I swear I did. I tried to take a deep breath, but the anger had taken its toll.
“Get out of my house!” I yelled so loud the windows could have very well shattered. “All of you, get out!”
By this time my mom had caught up and stood behind me, ready to defend me if the situation required it. I was grateful she was there, even though I was so highly charged in that moment that I didn’t realize she had come to protect me.
My former friend couldn’t even look at me. Her eyes were glued to her shoes in embarrassment. She stood up along with the two guys. Meanwhile, Jeremy stayed firmly planted on the couch, crossing his legs and spreading his arms across the sides. He was claiming his territory. “Everyone sit down. No one is going anywhere,” he barked.
The trio looked at each other and then switched glances from me to a smug-faced Jeremy. They slowly inched their way down to the couch, unsure of whether to stay put or get the heck out of my apartment.
“Get out,” I repeated, my voice firm and threatening. “This is my home. My name is on the lease. Get out!”
> They got up again, slowly, looking to Jeremy for direction.
“Stay put,” he warned with a menacing look on his face.
I knew I couldn’t fight this battle on my own. I picked up the nearby telephone and called the police. I said, “I have people in my house who won’t leave. Can you please escort them out?” If I couldn’t drag these fools out of my apartment, surely the men in blue could. I hung up the phone and threw Jeremy a satisfied grin. How do you like them apples?
He jumped off the couch and in one swift move got in my face and started mocking me. “Get out of my house. Get out of my house,” he imitated with spite. We were nose to nose, so close—making it easy for one of us to do something really stupid. I decided I wasn’t going to let him be the last man standing. As he continued to make fun of my threats, I smashed the beer bottle he was holding straight into his teeth.
My mom gasped. We were all shocked, Jeremy most of all. As he put his hand to his mouth, drops of blood fell and mingled with the beer on the floor.
Jeremy seethed. He started yelling and tossing vile obscenities at me. “You bleeping bleep bleep bleep!” Then he gathered a few things, summoned the three puppets with him, and walked out of the apartment.
I was so angry. A lot of my emotions were still built up from the last battle Jeremy and I had fought. Even though it was over, a part of me didn’t want to give up the fight. I lunged forward and screamed out to Jeremy, “You—” My mother stepped in front of me, stopping me dead in my tracks. The door slammed and they were gone, leaving me to clean up the mess.
It was over. It was finally over. After four years of madness and heartbreak and confusion and stupidity and uncertainty, Jeremy and I called it quits for good. There would be no more apologies. No more running back into each other’s arms. No more trying to make it work. No more vain attempts to piece together the brokenness. We were done.
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