I’m pretty good at beating myself up.
If they awarded fighting championship belts for kicking one’s own ass, I’d be a top contender.
And I’m a bruised, bloodied mess after this past week—about 13 months after my marriage detonated.
Because I’ve been having inconvenient feelings about my ex-wife for the past week or so.
It’s because getting over anger is one of the things I’m best at.
It’s because she’s my son’s mother and seeing them together is like watching the sun set into the ocean, or watching a meteor shower from the top of a mountain. Seeing them together combines two of the most beautiful things I know of.
Mega-beauty. Beauty on steroids. And it affects me down deep where almost nothing can reach.
Removing from the conversation the special love a father has for his son which all…
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