It’s so strange how things creep up and take me by surprise when I least expect them.

Annie is staying over at Tom’s tonight for the first time. It’s also the first time she’s ever slept away from me; we’ve shared our lives almost 100% for the last four years, and shared our bed for most of that time, too, so tonight is a bit strange. You’d think it’s normal for me to miss her. I do, but there’s something bigger going on, which I didn’t expect at all.

I suddenly had the urge – being alone and not responsible for anyone – to go and have wild, reckless sex with someone, anyone. I knew I could if I put my mind to it, but in all honesty, the thought of sex with a stranger sickens me. So I sat and thought about how I concluded that I wanted sex. Nothing. I put it to the back of my mind and carried on watching a film that was on.

Then I remembered.

The last time I was child-free was on a Friday night, always a Friday. Every other weekend I’d wave the children off, have a bath, make myself look good, put on nice underwear, nice clothes and drive to Tom’s. He’d never be in when I got there; he’d be at the pub, but I’d sit and wait for him. (It was only much later when I started to feel hurt by  him going out every Friday when he knew I was coming over, instead of choosing to spend the evening with me.)

As I waited, I’d have a few drinks; he’d text when he was about to leave; I’d order a curry, he’d come back home, kiss me passionately, hold me as if I was the only woman in the world, we’d eat, drink more, get drunk, talk, laugh, kiss, cuddle. We’d go in the kitchen to pick at the curry again, kissing, touching and becoming hungrier for each other. Eventually, when we could take no more, we’d go up to bed and have wild, reckless sex that would go on for hours. Every time was amazing, not so much the sex but the connection, the physical intimacy, him being so attentive and loving one minute, then wild and insatiable the next. Then we’d sleep, usually only for about four or five hours, then every Saturday morning was the same.

He’d wake first, go downstairs; I’d always wake to the sound of him singing in the kitchen as he made breakfast, then he’d bring it up, we’d eat the food and then spend the morning flitting between having sex, napping, listening to the radio, more sex, lots of kissing and cuddling, adoring looks. It was perfect, and I never wanted it to end.

At lunchtime he would get hungry, we’d get up and go out for lunch before coming home for more of the same. I felt warm, loved, adored, cared for and valued, although I’m aware this is slightly misguided, with him not even bothering to stay home one night out of fourteen to spend it with me. As quickly as it started, it all stopped when we moved in together and had Annie.

I can remember the pain of his rejection as if it’s just happened.

I realise that this is the reason I have let Annie share my bed for the last four years, why I devoted my entire life for two and a half years breastfeeding her on demand, even if it meant she fed solidly throughout the day. Why I never go out, why literally everything I eat, sleep and breathe is Annie. 

What a great distraction from the pain it is for me to lose what I had with him.

The rejection I felt when the daughter he always wanted came along, and he tossed me aside to spend every waking moment he could with her, instead of me – as well as me. Leaving me downstairs, taking her up to bed and staying there all night, gazing at her so lovingly, telling me he goes to bed to get away from me. Saying such hurtful things to me, making sure I know that I’ve done all that he wanted by giving him a daughter, and that I’m now redundant other than the need to care for her when he’s not around.

Maybe I don’t only keep her in my bed to fill the huge void he left, but also to create a bond so powerful between us that she’ll never love him as I loved him – and so he will never be able to have her as much as I can. Maybe I want him to hurt as much as I hurt when he stopped loving me the way he did.

I think these Friday nights are going to take some getting used to. These are nights I ‘should’ be with him – letting my hair down, having fun, being loved and adored.

Where is he now? In bed with the girl that took my place and took his heart away from me.

I know I sound jealous of my own daughter; I’m not at all. I just feel so, so sad that he replaced me so very easily when, actually, he could have had both had he formed a healthy relationship with Annie and not such a needy attachment to her. Maybe that itself is mirroring an unhealthy attachment I have to him, because let’s face it, if he were to become the man I fell in love with, and tell me he was sorry and actually, for once, accept and admit his part in our relationship failing so spectacularly, I doubt I would be able to stop myself from falling back in love with him again.

My attachment to him is hope.

Wasted hope.