It was late June. I had just finished a peaceful hike along Clear Creek. Twilight dawned. I sat down on a picnic table in Lion’s park. I felt pretty good and decided to give my mother a call. What I really wanted to talk to her about was the cryptic e-mail my ex-husband had sent to me the night before.

It was kind of an awkward transition to the topic. Ever since my ex had cut off contact with me in March 2007, my family avoided talking about him with me. It was like someone had died, but nobody would talk about it. If I brought him up in a conversation, they glossed over my mention and continued down a different thread.

But this night, I talked about him and received a response. My mother told me the news: He had gotten himself engaged. I felt like someone sucking air away from my lungs. I think it was just that I really didn’t want to cry and the body doesn’t like to be stopped in it’s natural response. I can’t think of a time when I was ever so shocked. I tried to continue the conversation, but eventually gave up. I was devastated to some degree and simply pissed off beyond measure on the remaining degrees.

That weekend was rough, but I managed to get through it. My anger sustained me. My grief sustained me. My mother’s worried calls of concern sustained me. What was really difficult to swallow was why anyone would think that I would want to hear that my ex-husband was engaged. I called my friend Marcia on Monday. She had called the week before, but didn’t deliver the news. She simply said on my voice mail, “we need to talk”. Now it all made sense.

When I called her on Monday the first thing out of my mouth was, “I know.
“I didn’t need to know”, I said. “And just for future reference if anyone needs to know, it’s not me. I don’t need to know what happens in his life anymore. I don’t need to know if he follows through with marriage. I don’t need to know if he has children. I just don’t need to know. I won’t hold it against anyone if they do know, but do not tell me.”

With the announcement of his engagement, I knew that hope for him and me had come to an end.

“In a way it’s a good thing,” I told Marcia. “Now I know that there really is no more hope. Now I can move on.”

And then, Marcia said something that struck me as oddly profound.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sometimes hope can be a real bitch”.

It’s true. Sometimes hope can be a huge road block to moving on. I am an idealist by nature and pretty much think that all stories should have a happy ending. Not every chapter of life has a happy ending. Sometimes the ending is sad. But thankfully there is always a new beginning. The new beginning is where hope can re-enter the picture. Not for the way things were or the way I had hoped them to be. But for the next stage in my life and the new choices I can make.