The Letter Arrives Again

The Letter Arrives Again

Today I received an email from the Bannock County Prosecutor letting me know that my ex is up for his review hearing. I was asked whether I planned to be present or if I had anything further I wanted to add to the record.

My answer is the same as the one I already gave months ago.

At that time, I wrote to the court that I believed he had completed what he needed to do for himself—counseling, services, the work that was required. I didn’t say that because I thought everything was perfect or because what happened didn’t matter. I said it because I genuinely only want the best for him. I never believed he was evil or cruel in some fundamental way. In truth, we were both hurt people. At times, he was mean. At times, so was I.

The decision to call the police that day was not made out of malice or revenge. It was made because I didn’t know how else to get him help. We didn’t have the financial resources or access to services that were clearly needed, and I believed—right or wrong—that intervention was the only option left. It was not about punishment. It was about safety and support.

That letter was sent three or four months ago. I will not be attending the hearing, and I will not be adding anything further to the court record.

He has made it very clear that he does not want to see me, speak to me, or have any connection with me again. He has discarded not only me, but our marriage. From the silence, from the abandonment, it’s hard not to believe that he holds only resentment or ill will toward me now. I don’t know how else to understand leaving someone you once claimed to love—not just leaving, but abandoning them without help, without financial resources, without even the dignity of explanation.

And yet, outside of acknowledging that reality, I have nothing more to say about the case itself.

What I do have is feeling.

Receiving that email reopened wounds I’ve been trying, slowly and carefully, to heal. It made me sad. It made me heavy. Because the truth I don’t often say out loud is this: I still miss him. I still love him. And part of me still wishes—quietly, foolishly—that the love went both ways.

But all the evidence, and all the silence, says otherwise.

I am learning to live with that.

I’m writing this not to accuse, not to relitigate, and not to ask for anything from him or from the system. I’m writing because grief doesn’t always move in a straight line. Sometimes it comes back as a letter in your inbox. Sometimes it feels like a fresh cut opening where you thought scar tissue had already formed.

The greatest pain, after so long together, is not anger. It’s erasure. Being discarded as if you never existed. Being met with silence instead of reconciliation, connection, or even closure.

This post is simply a place to set that pain down—so it doesn’t keep living only inside me.

And tomorrow, I will continue doing what I’ve been doing all along: healing, step by step.