It had been nearly three years since his mother passed away, two and a half since the miscarriage, and two since the separation.
If the miscarried baby had been a girl, it would have been three generations of women leaving him.
He chuckled at this realization. Six months ago, the same thought might have plunged him into despair. It was a sign of progress, even an achievement, to have climbed out of that deep, dark pit where his cries for help only echoed inwardly, causing more harm.
Now, Joseph Dan was back on top.
The thought made him laugh again. Despite everything, he still had his boldness.
“Better be careful,” JD murmured to himself. Finding peace had become easier than finding turmoil, but it was still new. He didn't want to jinx it, especially when he occasionally wondered:
“How did things get so out of control?”
He was scaling back on his depression, feeling less anxious, except when entangled in the nasty disputes between divorce lawyers. The shame was gradually fading, and his dojo was slowly coming back to him. He felt ready to move on and meet new women.
Online dating had exceeded his expectations. The stories of his past few years, framed in a certain light, were met with an unexpected warmth and tenderness, even surpassing what he'd received from people who knew him personally. These women, slim, attractive, and younger than 34, his age on the dating profile, quickly accepted that he was still dealing with a bitter divorce. Some questioned his readiness to move on, but once he assured them he was absolutely ready, they accepted that too.
“Am I really ready, though?” JD confided in his friend, a Chinese woman from college who had also gone through a divorce years earlier.
“Well,” she paused thoughtfully, “they’re ready for you. You were with her for a decade. That’s a significant track record.”
“I hope the divorce is finalized soon.”
“I know. But it does make you look more pitiful,” she chuckled.
“That’s a good thing?” JD raised an eyebrow.
“It makes you more desirable.”
Among all the friends who had supported him in recent years, he found the most comfort in her. She had navigated her own divorce and understood the emotional storms he was experiencing. Despite her occasional lack of empathy towards other women, her perspective was refreshing. It was reassuring to have someone from the opposite sex who understood and sided with him, especially when he sometimes felt judged by his male friends for being the first to break a vow, as if it were all his fault.
He often felt tempted to ask her, "Do you like me?" after she had cheered him up.
“Fuck off,” she’d respond with a groan, making him laugh. He mentally noted not to give in to the temptation again. If she said yes, it would open a can of worms he wasn’t ready to handle. He couldn’t risk losing the voice that had been his lifeline when the world felt suffocating.
For dinner, he made carbonara. He had begun to enjoy cooking for himself again. Sitting at the long dining table purchased for hosting but now used only by him he admired the open kitchen before him. The cream marble countertops, platinum faucets, white cabinets, imported stove, and empty wine cellar were all a reflection of his taste and budget. Renovating the apartment he had bought with his ex-wife was one of the early signs of his recovery. Despite his lawyer's advice to leave the disputed asset as is, he felt a strong urge to redesign the space. He had envisioned creating a home here, a place for a wife and kids, and he wasn’t going to let their absence deter him. The first change was knocking down the wall between the kitchen and dining area to open up the space. He wanted his home to be airy and minimalist chic, a stark contrast to his childhood home, which had been old and cluttered an aesthetic not valued by his immigrant parents.
After dinner, JD cleaned the table and sprawled out on his mostly bare couch. He picked up his phone and saw new notifications. Checking Bumble first, he saw a new profile.
“No fatties,” he swiped left.
He opened the Messages app and saw it was from that girl again. He had been on two dates with her two very enjoyable ones, he had to admit. She was a good conversationalist; he laughed at her stories and shared his own in a carefully crafted way. She listened well, responding with a simple "Wow" that encouraged him to open up more.
But she wasn’t the one. He had sensed it ten minutes into their first date and decided she would be someone to have fun with rather than pursue seriously. After two dates, he thought it was time to distance himself. Yet, she kept messaging him, sometimes every other day, sometimes multiple times at once. Her desperation became obvious, though he didn’t care enough to feel annoyed. He only read her messages after they had accumulated over days.
“What do you mean we’re not compatible in the long run?”
He felt a pang of pity for her need to ask. The truth was, she wasn’t good enough. She was a 7, and his ex was a 9. She wasn’t the hostess he envisioned for his life. It was clear they wouldn’t appreciate such honesty, so why bother? It amused him that he had assumed women over 30 would have the wisdom to accept rejection gracefully. Yet, they were just as inquisitive as their younger counterparts, perhaps believing they could handle any harsh truth. But he wouldn’t tell them it wasn’t worth it.
“Are you OK? Given everything you’ve told me, I hope you’re not struggling.”
Ugh. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE. Her attempts at sympathy felt pathetic. His struggles were his own, and he had faced them alone. What did she think she played a role after a few dates? How delusional. Sympathy for attention was the lowest form of engagement.
It was getting harder to take them seriously.
“How does it feel to lose your mom?”
That question shattered the fortress he had painstakingly built over months. In an instant, he was a child again, teary-eyed from stubbing his toe on the edge of the bulky coffee table that dominated the living room. His mom had rushed out from the smoky kitchen, wiped her hands on her apron, knelt beside him, checked his foot, and pretended to scold the table for being too big. Then she had hurried back to the kitchen, leaving behind a haze of heat and grease, while he remained confused and disoriented.
“How does it feel to lose your mom?”
How could she be so callous? She threw the question at him without any context, flipping over the table of judgment. All the remnants of his childhood, the coffee table included, seemed to recede, leaving him exposed and helpless. He wanted to hide but found only emptiness around him. He felt paralyzed, his chest tightening, his breath catching. What had happened? JD had lost control, the control he had achieved by not engaging with his pain.
Motherless bastard.
She might as well have said it outright. He had called himself that in moments of despair, when he couldn’t muster the strength to look up. How did he feel about losing his mom? The woman who loved him unconditionally but never taught him how to love in return. The woman who shielded him from the pain of her illness, leaving him unprepared for the inevitable losses that followed. The woman whose early departure set him on a futile chase, pursuing those who outgrew him while being pursued by the seriousness of life. The woman who left him with a book of regrets for not being the best version of himself when she was still around, making her worry for him until the end.
Are you happy now?
He took a deep breath and typed, “Please do not contact me anymore.”
JD then got up and went to the guest bathroom. On the window ledge rested a half-smoked joint on a small china plate. He lit it and took a couple of puffs, which eased his nerves slightly. Two weeks earlier, in the same spot, he had been coughing violently from a misdirected inhale, while the girl had supported him, rubbing his back gently.
“You’re drooling!” she had said, barely containing her laughter. He spat into the sink and looked back at her, her eyes curving into crescent shapes. Under the soft honeyed light, her long lashes created a delicate shadow.
The light, the flashback, and the marijuana left JD feeling overwhelmingly tired.
He returned to the couch and picked up his phone. He deleted his previous message and typed, “What do you mean?”
JD lay back and stared at the ceiling, which was shrouded in darkness. Occasionally, he lifted his phone to check the Messages app, staring at the chat window, waiting for the three dots to appear.
