Well, I'm back again. With no sleep last night, I decided to come into work early this morning. On the way in, I realized that my very brief entry about Rosa's baby probably was not communicated very well. Being a writer, that speaks rather poorly of me.
So, let me try again.
Rosa's baby was probably born around a week ago. Both mother and child are doing well. That Rosa is well is always a relief to my mind and her baby is a miracle worthy of a lifetime of love.
And so, you figure, that makes everything well and good and it should by all rights but what is left out of the equation is yours truly. I can't begin to tell you exactly why her birth fills me with such despair. Maybe it's because it's just another reminder that Rosa never wanted to have my children, that she doesn't want me, that she doesn't love me, and that I've lost her forever. (As such, it would be a reminder working overtime.) Maybe it's because I asked to be a part of this child's life and Rosa rejected me.
It's that third maybe that always kills me. It cuts open my stomach and leaves my guts hanging like yesterday's laundry. It eats at my head like maggots. It ruins any hope of ever moving on, of ever being happy again.
Maybe it's because I still love Rosa and miss her more than I ever thought possible, because I walk with her image always by my side, with her whisper forever in my ear, and her face implanted in my head, because I was supposed to be the father of her children (natural or step, it doesn't matter), because it's just not fair.
So, of course, I wish her all the best. She doesn't need my wishes, of course, any more than she needs my love, but there they are anyway.