She told me she wanted to start our family again. I knew that’s what she wanted. I’d already done it. For her. For me. For us. But I didn’t tell her. That day she seemed so close to falling apart. I thought it was the show. I trusted her, why would I think anything else?

That was the day it all fell apart for both of us.

I want to say that that was the last day I loved her. That’s not true in a physical sense. What we did with and to each other was not making love. We fought. We fucked. Love was not in the room.

It’s not true in an emotional sense, either. I still love her. At least, I think I still love her. Sometimes I wonder if either of us ever knew what love is.

Maybe we just fell into familiar practices. She collects things. I take care of things. I became a permanent part of her collection, her caregiver. She became my keeper, the one who always needed care. Perhaps it never went beyond that.

If that were so, then ending it would probably be easy. And it’s not.

Then there’s Joyce *****-nia. Wow, was I taken in there. Or, again, did I want to believe that somehow, going to a lawyer was going to make things even for us.

I just felt unclean about it all, though. Even aside from the improper behavior, which I don’t even want to think about. The rest of it, like going through the house as if it were being readied for a yard sale. I know that wasn’t right, but I wasn’t sure what to do to stop it. I thought perhaps the threat of an equal would be enough.

But enough for what? Enough to make her profess a love for me that was never there? Enough to make her beg me to come back, because she needs someone in her life?

I don’t know the question to ask. What do I want?

Except for the baby. That’s the only part of my life where I have no questions. I know I want this baby.

It’s difficult not to think of it as our baby. If I do, then we become some very bizarre almost straight-person cliche. How many lesbians leave their pregnant wife?