3rd December 2012
Dear Emma,
Writing this sends me spinning back to this time last year and the night that changed everything. I’d written you that letter then gone out, trying to break through my cloud of depression, as well as finding an excuse to drink. It was some friend of Hattie’s house party where I knew almost no one, and after losing Hattie, I’d been wandering aimlessly—bottle in hand, still smarting from the fact I was spending our anniversary without you, nervous about the letter. Had you read it yet? Would it make a difference?
I’d been out on the balcony, back against the handrail, telling some story to some stranger I didn’t care about. Arms wide, I’d been gesturing extravagantly when the bottle fell from my grip and in a jerky movement to try to catch it, I’d overbalanced and lost control completely. Hattie had appeared in the double doors to the balcony and I saw her wide-eyed look as I slowly tipped back, arms windmilling as I tumbled over the edge. I heard her terrified shout as I fell.
You visited me in hospital the next day, cried by my bed when Hattie told you what had happened. She’d phoned the ambulance immediately. In the minute it took to race down the stairs and outside to me she believed I’d be dead. How could I have survived a fall from that height? The paramedics couldn’t believe it either—a broken arm, rib, a small gash on my temple to show for it—I was told how lucky I was—if I’d landed a different way . . .
I told Hattie I couldn’t recall any of it, but that isn’t true. I remember falling backward, I remember the thoughts I had as I fell through the air.
That fall transformed everything for me. Life looked different after that night. I’d wanted to change but that night gave me the strength to do it.
I felt able to be there for you and Poppy. I made a conscious effort to remember the things I needed, stop asking you stupid questions, no more playing dumb. When Poppy cried I held her, felt her tiny body shaking in my arms over a broken biscuit/a lost polar bear toy/when she wanted the orange plate, but then didn’t want the orange plate. I joined her tea parties, played endless rounds of that plastic monkey game, delighted in hearing her laugh, seeing her turn to me to share the joke. She dragged me back into the light.
The therapy helped; I stayed the course—no more running from the room with flimsy excuses about oversized dream catchers. And she’s good, Hattie was right. Talking to her about Mum, the pain and shock of losing her, facing up to how I’d behaved in those months with you and Poppy released something twisted and messy inside me. The medication, the sessions, allowing me to finally see that I had hope, that I had a future.
And with you? No big gestures, no rushing in. I knew I needed to prove I was worthy of you, reliable, turning up when I said I would, listening, following through on promises.
Did it change for you? Do you believe it now?
I lived for those days with the two of you in between my other life, the sad single-dad bachelor I knew I never wanted to be. I asked you out, doing things backward: date nights in gastropubs, a quiet brunch, holding hands as I walked you home. The second first kiss in Wimbledon Park, Poppy up ahead pointing out ducks, clumsy, you’d caught me by surprise, the warm glow that filled me up all the way home. And then the day we were planning Poppy’s birthday party, and you simply asked if I’d like to be there when she woke up. I still can’t think about that without choking up.
You let me stay. I love being home, still amazed that the fog has cleared. Your shapes are defined, the colors more vivid. When I ask you a question I can hear your answer. Old jokes resurface. And every time I do another thing for us I can feel myself being pulled back toward a world I used to inhabit full-time. Finding joy in Poppy’s giggle, a shared look, a story from your day, you nestled into me on our sofa, the warmth as I stare down at your profile.
I still worry about us—that you’ll never quite be able to forget what I did—but I’m determined to make a life for us now, have seen a glimpse into another, duller world. I was pleased when the landlord gave us notice—OK, OK, after the initial shock (I’m a planner, Emma!)—it meant a fresh start somewhere new. And it’s lovely to have Hattie round the corner—I’m glad she’s broken up with Ed, I never quite got him. You love it too—two of you with TV voting rights is deadly—I’ve watched more X Factor than a man should.
I hope you know now that I’m not going anywhere, that you can trust me again. I really want to share the load. I want to do more. You don’t always have to be captain of our ship—I can steer it too (sorry this has suddenly gone very nautical) but you are my best mate (OK, that one was deliberate).
As for work, maybe you should take some time to think about what you really want to do. I should know more than anyone about needing to do something you love. I feel like a new man, landing on my feet with Matt. He was always full of big plans during our business degree. I didn’t even know sports marketing was a thing, but I feel so at home in this world. I want that for you too. And you were doing everything on your own for too long—this is your time to lean on me.
I love you, Emma. I think of the nights we spend together. Every part of our bodies touching, you press yourself tightly into me, smelling of coconut shampoo, murmuring into my neck. You are still the most beautiful woman I know—you’ve grown out your hair, your bangs separating in the center, long enough to be tucked behind your ears. Sometimes I see you swaying in our living room to the music you love to play or adjusting an earring over the mantelpiece mirror and I get that sucker-punch feeling I got on that tube all those years ago.
For the first time in a while I’m looking forward again, not in the past with Mum, or crippled with indecision in the present. It is no exaggeration to say that I think you’ve saved my life this year. I genuinely don’t know what I would have done without you.
You are my very favourite human.
I love you Emma,
Dan x