I know I don’t deserve it, but I’ll make it up to you.
Just please.
Please let me help.
I love you. Let me show you.
The words sting and soothe in equal measure. He knows exactly what to say.
But does he mean it this time?
And by now I know it probably won’t last forever—but will it last long enough to get me through this low point?
I text another friend, D, desperate for her guidance. She’s a social worker, a fellow cat lady, and someone who’s dealt with her own fair share of bullshit when it comes to men and life.
D:
You should make sure he stays consistent for at least nine months before letting him back. But I’ll support you no matter what.
Nine months.That feels like a lifetime. But I don’t have a lifetime right now.
I need help. I need someone. I needhim.
With trembling fingers, I type my response.
Me:
Okay.
You can come back.
But you need to follow through on everything you said. 100%.
This is your last chance.
No more letting me down.
Timmy’s reply is immediate:
Timmy:
Oh my god, Margaux, I promise you I’ll do everything I said I would. You mean the world to me. I love you so much. Thank you for giving me one more chance.
For a moment, I let myself believe him.
Timmy arrives like a whirlwind of devotion.
He runs to me, squeezing me close to his chest, and kisses my forehead.
He clears the centipedes and cockroaches with determination, scrubs the apartment until it gleams, and fills Sabre’s bowls with care. He cooks, cleans, and even helps with my book marketing.
Every promise he made, he keeps.
He takes Anabusin which will make him violently ill if he drinks, attends therapy and AA meetings, and—for the first time—there’s a semblance of peace in our home.
One night, Timmy even agrees to listen to an audiobook about quitting drinking with me. It’s a small step, but it feels significant. As the narrator delves into the complexities of alcohol use, I feel a strange mix of guilt and relief.
We recap each chapter like we’re part of an exclusive book club.