-A Lie
I decided to focus on family, choosing to believe-and have faith-that everything else would fall into place. I wasn't comfortable-or good-at lying to her.
So, when Samantha surprised me one day by swallowing her pride and asking directly if a...
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When Samantha and I met, she was undeniably beautiful. She had just turned 21, and I was 24. We crossed paths at a bar one night, and not long after, had our first official date: burgers at Fuddruckers, followed by a quiet walk along the river near the Neponset access point. On a whim, I jumped into the cold water, and she laughed as she wrapped me in a towel, holding me close to warm me.
A week later, we met before sunrise to watch hot-air balloons rise into the crisp morning sky. We ended the date with breakfast at her family's home. Her mom, Janet, served eggs and hash browns, and I found myself sitting with her father, James, her brother Bob, and his boys, Eric and Kevin. The adults in Samantha's family were stoic and understated, unlike the warmth and boisterousness of my own—but I liked them immediately. Her dad eventually gave me the nickname "Sunshine," delivered with a wry grin I couldn't help but return. (RIP Papa.)
I loved Samantha from that first date—and for a long time afterward.
[A fact I haven't admitted in years. To say it now might sound cruel, but hiding that truth spared her from holding on to hope when none remained.]
In the beginning, I liked surprising her with small gifts—usually flowers or clothes. I'd picture her in each piece I picked out, imagining how pretty she'd look. I liked being seen with her and felt proud walking beside her. There was an ease between us—something that had been missing from past relationships—and I found comfort in that.
In those early days, her depression showed up as a mood swing—a melancholy shadow we assumed love, hope, and youth could outpace.
[It was a hopeful belief in love's power, and not an easy one to surrender.]
Over the years, as her depression deepened, I clung to that hope long past the point where it was reasonable. When the weight of it finally settled, I didn't just feel sadness. I felt guilt—for betraying her, for failing to pull her through, for giving up. But beneath that guilt lay something harder to admit: anger. I was angry that she had surrendered to something I couldn't fix. Angry that she left me to carry so much of life alone. Angry that the woman I once knew had disappeared while I clung to the belief we were okay.
Why couldn't I make her happy? Why wasn't love enough?
I hated that those questions kept me up at night. And I hated even more that, eventually, I stopped asking them.
The waves of guilt and anger often came at the same time—sometimes directed at her, but just as often at myself. I felt guilty for betraying someone I had once loved so purely, for walking away from a vow I had meant when I said it. But I was angry too—not just at her depression, but at how easily she seemed to sink into it.
The burden of keeping the household intact—holding everything together for the kids, keeping up appearances—felt suffocating. And in darker moments, I resented her for it.
Near the end, I found it hard to be in the same room with her. The silence between us was thick, and every interaction felt strained or mechanical. I preoccupied myself with work, the kids' activities, and household chores—anything to stay busy, to avoid the heaviness that had settled over our home. In time, I enrolled back in school. It felt like a productive move, but also an escape—one that would eventually take me somewhere I hadn't planned.
