I thought you should know, I’m in receipt of your email. The one you sent through that sneaky backdoor called Yahoo, since every other option was met with a block. The one that attempted to pop up innocently—between sale advertisements and Linked In notifications, credit card offers and local house listings—but still appeared as nothing but a huge crimson red flag.
The one clearly meant for Annemarie of three years ago … With its supposed regret and sad remorse for cruel treatment, yet strangely full of self-pity over the consequences of those actions and blatantly missing any hint of apology.
“couldn’t be more embarrassed or appalled at the things I said to you…”
“they play over and over again in my head, like a nightmare…”
“I swear, I’ll show you the respect you deserve and should have always received from me…”
Strategic, slick, sweet-talking words of a charmer, dancing around accountability with expert moves practiced for decades and laced with victimhood. Fake urgency about a need to speak again over important matters.
Important? Years later? How odd.
Annemarie of three years ago would have cried tears of joy to receive that textbook hoover, interpreting it as a man finally seeing the light and maybe ready to come home. She’d write back paragraphs, welcoming you back into her world. Paragraphs full of adoration and promises that you could bet your life on, because she was sincere, honest and real. Her promises were as authentic as the love she gave you. She’d tell you to come home, all is forgiven. Clean slate. New start. Just come home to “your woman”, “your Angel”, “your Annemarie”, dear soulmate …
She’d welcome you with teary eyes and a gentle, joyful smile. As though you were a king returning to his castle, she’d celebrate your return, preparing a meal like a feast, with all the trimmings. The house would be clean from top to bottom, smelling of candles and a home-cooked meal. The bed would be freshly made, with a loving, loyal woman ready and willing to lead her king there, offering him anything and everything he desired.
You’d return with your two black trash bags of clothing and the beat-up Tupperware bin of belongings. Annemarie of three years ago would see a task to be handled for her king, and the sooner the better. The clothing and your favorite blanket, smelling heavily like an old ashtray, would soon be lovingly washed and folded, delivered to the bedroom smelling like Gain and properly put away in a bureau she’d drag to the bedroom herself, quickly changing it back to a comfortable room for two.
She’d continue working two jobs to carry the weight while you got settled back in and looked for a job, knowing of course, you’d take your time. After all, you weren’t quite sure what you wanted to do for a career and didn’t like to be rushed. Annemarie of three years ago was used to working two jobs, since it became necessary for financial survival after the last crash and burn of the relationship. Or was it the time before? Hard to remember.
She worked tirelessly to keep things together when you decided the grass was greener elsewhere, and worked to a point of exhaustion when you were present in the home, giving barest minimum and shamelessly watching her bounce from day job to night job while you relaxed on the couch watching TV or enjoying the evening with a leisurely after-dinner smoke. Sometimes, she didn’t have time for dinner, grabbing a quick cup of coffee instead, between jobs. I wonder if you remember.
That Annemarie was really something.
Anyway, you should know I’m in receipt of your email, but I am not the Annemarie you remember.
She’s dead and gone, buried with the past and all that it involved; the self-sacrifice, the over-giving, the accepting breadcrumbs from someone fully capable of doing their part and keeping their word if they chose to, the staying silent when she should have told you to stop wasting her time, the walking on eggshells to try and keep peace between your mood swings, the loving, cherishing and respecting someone faithfully and loyally when it was not reciprocated. She always tried so desperately to build with you, as you tossed bricks aside while still spouting deceitful empty promises of soulmate love and a life together.
I’m in receipt of your email, but the woman it was addressed to no longer exists.
I, the Annemarie of today, recognized that message as nothing more than a temperature check. A testing of access to see if you’d be granted entry through the door of supposed simple conversation while you wait on the other side of the no-contact threshold. A feeble, obvious attempt to be given keys to peek inside my current world, just for curiosity’s sake. Maybe to compare, maybe to try and feel good about yourself and the choices you made or maybe to size up my reality to see if the time is right for re-entry.
But I don’t entertain the type of energy you bring to the table anymore.
I’m in receipt of your email…
But we have absolutely nothing to talk about.