The Welshlands were lovely, and there will be a suitable upbeat post about it all at some point in the near future, with Bad Godmothering and all sorts.
I was prepared to come home. I knew Rich wouldn't be here. I knew that we are now over 5 weeks, and that he's been cremated and scattered, although I have no idea really where. I was prepared for the emptiness after the AC had gone to bed again, and again and again, and may yet need putting back again, but I cannot do him the disservice of backsliding on him sleeping in with me. He is 6 now, and beyond such baby behaviour - and besides, how much would be for my benefit?
I wasn't prepared for the sudden sense of loss again. For the tears again. For the wanting and the missing and the needing and the I don't understand to hit me all over again. I love him. I know he loves me, I can still feel his love around me, and I get so much strength from that, but what we had was so good, so right, for both of us.
We'd never been this happy.
He loved being a family, not playing the charade of it he had with the She-Ex. He loved being him, not having to try and be what she thought she wanted that week. He loved the trust and the acceptance of who he was and how he was and he was happy.
I loved being a family, loved the AC having a father who cared about him, loved him unconditionally, played with him, planned for him, cherished him. I loved the way he loved me for who I was, appreciated what I did for him, and did little things for me, I loved the way he was building our home inside it's own shell, and I was happy and the AC was happy.
Maybe it's wallowing. I don't think so. He was a wonderful man, a fabulous partner, and an amazing father, and I don't see why that should be forgotten because it doesn't suit other people.
I miss him. I thought I was prepared to miss him again tonight, and I wasn't.