I wrote this piece for the writing class I just finished. I am thrilled that it is the first post on my new writing blog:

 I stood on his porch and clutched my bag of groceries close, hoping to feel less exposed. You can do this, I whispered, accepting that I was about to spend my favorite holiday with a family that wasn’t mine.

Warily, I rang the doorbell and heard the antiquated 3-note chime. Within seconds, wearing a pale green Hawaiian print shirt, khaki shorts, and a big smile, Bob swung open the door. ”Hi, Beautiful.”

I gingerly stepped inside. The weight of knowing that Bob’s wife had died in this house, hit me again, just as it had every time I had visited in the 2 months since we started dating. The lingering stain on the master bedroom carpet was a disconcerting reminder of that tragic day and the trauma I was stepping into. How could they still live here? Sadly, my guess was that Bob didn’t have the heart, nor the inertia, to move.

I followed Bob into the kitchen and started unloading the groceries. He poured me a welcome glass of malbec and I took a long, calming sip.

We had immediately clicked online, then over the phone, and ultimately in person. Our compatibility was evident in everything from politics to movies, and even there in the kitchen. I started chopping onions while he peeled the potatoes. He’d patt my behind or cozy up behind me and kiss my neck. We easily fell into the normalcy of an old married couple.

In bopped Alex, Bob’s eleven-year-old daughter, asking to help. The youngest of his three children, I originally feared her the most, envisioning daddy’s little girl. She quickly proved me wrong, welcoming me openly and accepting my presence (and my presents). I handed her a red plaid apron and she got to work mixing the stuffing.

The smell of rosemary and roasting turkey filled the kitchen and helped thaw the unease that hung in the air. The boys, 13 and 16, swung in and swung out just as quickly.

The meal came together surprisingly easily and we made our way to the table. I wished for music to help cut through the quiet. I grasped onto any hint of interest that the kids expressed, hoping to engage them in conversation. Nothing worked. Their eyes avoided mine. Bob grabbed my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, as if to say I’m sorry without words.

Finally, Bob broke the silence. “What’s wrong?”

Gulp. Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to.

The oldest looked directly at me. “Really Dad?”

The urge to flee swept over me. More excruciating silence.

As we cleared the table, I did my best to hide my disappointment and hurt. The kids filed upstairs leaving us alone. We didn’t talk. Bob stood at the sink and started on the dishes.

My heart felt heavy in my chest and my resolve to appear unflinching finally gave out. “I’ll be back in a bit; I’m going for a quick walk,” trying to keep my voice faltering.

I rushed out without my coat and quickly regretted that decision. The late Fall wind cut through my sweater. I walked briskly with my arms hugging my body; maybe if I walked fast enough I could escape the reality that I was 32, separated, alone on Thanksgiving, and dating a man whose kids hated me.

Sadness built like wave as I walked and washed over me, leaving anger. They weren’t the only ones who had experienced pain and loss. I had lost so much that year: my marriage, my home, my dogs, and the vision I had for my family.

Just eleven months earlier I discovered the e-card that would change the trajectory of my life. “Burning desire…touch of your skin…make love again.” Sadly, I was not the recipient. Predictably, his personal trainer was.

Perhaps even more sadly, I wasn’t surprised. I knew I had married a man with a wandering eye and unfillable well of need to be wanted. I had spent ten years listening to explanations of late work meetings that didn’t add up, being told not to trust my instincts. I was exhausted after a decade of deceit and finally had my ticket out. Except for one little (huge) detail – we had a two year old daughter.

As I child of divorce, I knew what was in store for my daughter: two houses, co-parenting, and split holidays. I weighed those factors against my living in complete contradiction of my values and being a pitiful role model for my daughter. I chose the former and moved us into a two-bedroom apartment that I absolutely loved. It was new and mine. A few months later, I met Bob online.

The loop around Bob’s neighborhood took about thirty minutes to walk, plenty of time for me to dive head first into a pity party.

I passed perfectly trimmed yards and warmly lit houses. One house had a generous bay window where a Cleaver-like family was sitting down to dinner, laughing and smiling, with a golden brown turkey straight out of a Good Housekeeping photo shoot perched in the middle of their table. Envy flooded in, even though my rational mind knew that anyone can look happy from the other side of a window.

The street lights flickered on and snapped me back to reality. One last turn and the house would be in view. I could take another lap, but my runny nose and tingling fingers couldn’t brave the cold much longer. I steeled myself to go back. And just as I rounded the corner, a man appeared in the distance. He stepped into the glow of the light cast from above and I realized it was Bob. Like a sappy romantic comedy from the 80’s, he came after me, and I loved him for it.

We both quickened our pace, meeting eagerly in the middle of the street.

“I was doing the dishes and this overwhelming voice said ‘go get her’.”

Bob grasped my shoulders and pulled me close. He kissed me gently, but with purpose. Like our first kiss only weeks ago, this kiss filled a little hole in my heart and gave me hope. It was a kiss I would remember forever.

As we walked hand-in-hand back to the house, optimism outweighed all the doubt. Together, we entered the house and heated up the pecan pie.