The Empty Field

The Empty Field….

It was a simple task. Fill out your user profile in the new expense system at work. Verify name, address, phone number, date of birth.

Marital Status.

There is not a drop-down for “f you” or “none of your business.”

There is not an option that says “Divorce in progress.”

I need a gosh damn yield sign because the next question is even better: Emergency Contact Information.

Can I put a coworker? Is that weird? Who would I like you to call in case I break a leg, get in a car accident, or worse, die? Shall I also put my life insurance policies into the comments field, as well as their distribution amounts?

I was so proud to be a wife, and I wasn’t just proud to be the noun, I was proud to be his wife. It didn’t care if you were the mail carrier, the grocery store employee, the doctor, the co-worker, the playdate counterpart I just met. I was proud to take his name, be his association, be his person.
He was supposed to be my person. The one who listened to my bad day, who knew how I liked my coffee, who could identify my mood based on the appearance or disappearance of a beauty mark on my face, who knew the right spot on my neck to kiss, the jokes to make me laugh, the right amount of time to hold me before he pulled away.

He was supposed to be the luckiest man alive whether we were together in a room of 20, 200, or 2,000 people.

He was supposed to be my forever emergency contact. The person whose heart would cease to beat if mine did.

He was supposed to be the one they called if something happened to me.

My mouse cursor slowly blinks at me, patiently but passive aggressively waiting for an answer, kind of like how I waited for him for so long and I am reminded.

I am reminded I am my own person. He isn’t my person anymore.

And when the coroner called to announce the death of our marriage he didn’t answer the phone anyway, and his voicemail box was full of all the preliminary warning messages he never wanted to listen to.

The mouse cursor blinks on.

-Jessica: Awesome Single Mama

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