A few years ago, I went on a casual date. I say "casual" because it was with a man who was six years younger than me and living a life that, at least outwardly, didn't look like it would align with mine. He held down a job, but he spent all of his time at concerts and bars. He had empty whiskey bottles under his bed.
We had an amazing one-night stand. At least, I thought it was a one-night stand. When I walked out of his downtown rowhome that evening, I wasn't planning on seeing him again. He was too young for me. Too immature. He'd never be ready for something serious with me, a single mom of two kids. He'd even mentioned on that first date that he wanted his own kids, while I had decided long ago that I didn't want more.
More from LittleThings: Single Motherhood Has Cost Me A Lot Of Friendships. Here's How I'm Combating Loneliness
"Well, this probably won't work," I told him, to which he replied that we could just have fun for a night.
So we did.
It was true that he wasn't ready for everything, or anything, that came with me. And I didn't know it right then, but that wouldn't stop him from wanting to be — from trying to be.
When I got home that night, there was already a text on my phone. It was openhearted. It was kind. He told me how much fun he'd had and that he couldn't wait to see me again. I liked how bold he was, even more than I liked his long hair and his stupid tattoos (one on his ribs said his name) and the fact that he towered over me. I had to stand on my tip-toes to kiss him. Suddenly, I found myself reconsidering my first impression.
The next day, I wrote him a message. I don't remember what I said. But he told me later how happy it made him that I'd reached out. On our second date, we ate charcuterie in a park and hung out in his hammock, and he made me laugh. On our third, we both told each other things only a few people knew. I don't remember what we did on our fourth, just that I probably already loved him.
There is a theory that falling in love is mostly about falling in love with who you are when you're with someone. That much was true for me. I had spent years pent up and worried — I had a lot to think about, from trying to leave a marriage I knew for years wasn't working to protecting my kids from the process of leaving to delving into my own work and life in a way that would both light me up and serve my family. But with him, I didn't worry about anything. I felt like a lighter version of myself.
I loved laughing at the voices he did while he cooked me dinner. I loved how we played together like little kids. And how big he smiled before he snuck around a corner to kiss me so my kids wouldn't see. I loved playing guitar with him and singing badly.
He wasn't perfect. He drank too much. And he wasn't as self-aware as I knew I needed someone to be. But I maybe loved him more than I've ever loved anyone. I wanted us to grow together because he was the only person I've ever been able to envision sharing my life with.
I can be obnoxiously independent. That makes it hard to foster relationships. It makes it hard to have men sleep over or stick around for too long. Usually, I end up wanting my space. But I didn't want space from him. I imagined us in a big house with my kids and our dogs, his and mine, running around the yard. I imagined all of the things you're supposed to imagine that I never really had before, not with anyone.
The only problem was that he had a different vision.
He had only just turned 29 when we first met. He had a half-dozen nieces and nephews. As the baby of the family, he was the only one who didn't have kids of his own. It wasn't just important to him to have them, it was completely nonnegotiable. So much that I never tried, not for a second, to negotiate it. Instead, I almost threw away the life that I had fought for — the life I wanted — just to be with him.
He pushed for the idea of kids. He thought I would change my mind. And for a while I did, except that it wasn't for me. It was just so that I would get to keep him. When I imagined starting over, nursing, and diapers, and preschool, I felt pangs of panic — not joy.
One horrible day, I knew I had to make a choice. It was me or him. I could put someone's needs before my own, and I nearly did. Or I could burn it all down. I could go back to being alone. I could choose me.
In the end, I chose me. And even though it was right, it was the hardest thing I've ever hard to do.
The day he came to collect his things, I got out of the house. He sent me angry texts while I grocery shopped. He was enraged that I was making him go. He didn't have to be. I already hated myself for it, or at least I hated that I had to make that choice at all.
When he was gone and my house looked bare, I was so lonely I couldn't breathe. It's been a year, and sometimes I still cry myself to sleep because I miss him so much. I keep thinking that I'll move on. That I'll meet someone else I love more. So far, that hasn't happened. I've barely been able to connect with anyone. I have only been on a handful of second dates. Sometimes, I worry that I'll never imagine my life with someone the way I did with him.
There's no moral to the story. There's no lesson from this loss. I didn't mean to fall in love with someone who wanted different things than I did. And I'm not sure you get to choose who you fall in love with anyway. If anything, I'm just trying to look back on the relationship and be glad it happened, even though it didn't end up how I wanted. I'm trying to keep hope alive that maybe, one day, I'll meet someone who makes me fall in love with myself again.
In the meantime, I'm trying to fall in love with me on my own, because in so many ways, I have the life I want. I have two kids who are healthy and growing, an old dog, and a puppy I impulsively rescued out of heartache and grief. I have a job I love and a handful of friends who have stuck by me through divorce and what feels like a thousand broken hearts ever since. I'm lucky in a lot of ways.
Still, choosing me meant walking away — and walking alone again. And almost every day I wake up and still wonder about him. I wonder about the choice I didn't make. I wonder about the other side. I still see that big house with the kids and the dogs. I see us in the kitchen. I see his smile. I hear my own laugh. But it's my vision, not his.
So I pull myself out of the fantasy. I choose me. Again and again. And I keep going.
