I'm lying propped up in my bed, an obscene amount of pillows holding me up. My eyes are sore and bloodshot. I've done my best today to keep busy, taking my youngest out to a diner for lunch, getting some birthday and Christmas shopping done. I couldn't resist picking up a T shirt that I thought he might like, even though he said this morning it was best for me and that we were done. I hate this. I hate that the only way to keep me and the kids safe is to break up. I can't sleep more than four or so hours. Every morning since That Day I have woken up at 3:30. He said I don't deserve to go through the hell this has brought on him. I begged him to do something awful to me so it would make it easier for me. He refused. I asked him if I could stay in contact and be a friend and supporter. He said that would be fine. I told him that if he gets custody of his son that as a single parent, sooner or later he would need help. I said I would be there. I wanted to help. He agreed. I offered to help him get his house cleaned up, that he could pay me so if it made him more comfortable. Maybe. I'll take maybe. So now I'm here in my bed, ignoring the four loads of dirty laundry that need to be done, wondering if it is too early to pour a glass of wine. Or three...
I'm not okay. I'm trying to convince the world that I'm perfectly fine, that everything is normal. I think today I have been successful in that. 
At least I'm still his friend, his supporter. At least I get to see him sometimes, and call him to see how things are going. At least he knows he's not alone, not even now.