Cocaine Widow

I am somewhat surprised by the fact that nothing surprises me anymore. I thought I was doing a good thing, taking as little money from my husband as possible, so he could save up and get away from his alcoholic brother. Of course, now I find out that instead of helping my husband out, my brother-in-law is charging him rent. To sleep on the floor. To get his act together. That’s our family for you.

Brother helping brother. Greedy asshole, just like his mother.

As far as I see it, that is money my son and I could be using to pay the avalanche of bills that find their way to my mailbox everyday, most of them with my husband’s name on them. Yes, I could stop paying them, and I will. But not just yet.

I decided maybe I’ll just let my husband come home. He can have the house, the yard that no one wants to cut and the demanding cats that go in it. I spoke to a real estate agent and am applying for a loan. I was shocked at how good my credit was… and that it actually may be possible to do.

I may have to cut down on my living space, but I am going to try and buy a house for me and my son. If my husband, who makes more money than I do and has a more steady work history, can’t do it, then I will. It won’t be the first time I’ve rolled up my sleeves and said, “Screw it. I’ll take care of it.” And it probably won’t be the last. I have to take care of business. I have a son to raise. I have a purpose.

Sometimes I am thankful that my husband and his idiot brother keep me so angry. It clouds out the sadness… It gives me reason not to miss the man I married, who by all accounts, is gone, daddy, gone. I don’t detect a trace of him. It also keeps me from letting the fear set in. The fear is always close… the fear of being alone, of being caught off guard, of not having anyone to turn to, even if it’s just to say, “Can you believe that? I just might buy my own house!”