My Dylan

My Dearest Dylan,

How hard these words are to write, though I am sure that reading them will be that much harder on you. I would apologize, but I don't think you would take it, and I am sure you don't want to hear it. Nothing I can possibly say will make up for the wrong that I have done to you, to myself, to our marriage. Saying "I'm sorry" sounds weak, even to my own ears. It doesn't nearly begin to describe how horrible I feel for the anguish I know it caused you.

You may not believe me, but that was the first time. The only time that I have ever done anything like that since we were married. Trust is another thing, like your forgiveness, that I know I shouldn't bother asking for, but please trust me when I say that it was the only time. Ever. See me, maybe not as my husband, but as my best friend, and know that when I say this- I never meant for it to happen. And I regret it with every breath.

During the earlier part of our marriage, three long and beautiful years, we had the perfect life. We lived and loved and laughed daily, and you hung the moon for me. We worked on the little things together, and even the not so little ones, and we faced our troubles as a unit; strong and unshakable. You supported my art as I supported your surfing, and we had the world at our feet.

But then it changed; at least for me. After my father died, something inside felt hollow and empty. I knew you knew that I was sad, but I don't think- had I even tried to explain it- that you could understand. My work suffered, I sold less paintings, and I've actually not painted anything new in five months. The pieces I showed you last week were things that I had in the attic that I never was going to sell because they were horrid. But I had to show you why I was locked in the studio for hours on end. I would sit in there, crying, shaking, unable to eat because of this odd depression.

As the year went on, it got worse, and harder to hide from you. Thankfully, in part, you were so busy with the new season and the prep for the fall confrences that I was able to keep myself locked away. You were gone so often and for so long that being happy and glad to have you home wasn't a stretch. It was then that I met Lucas.

He's nothing more than a friend. A friend that I thought I could trust; though now I see why you warned me of him. You were right all along of his intentions. And I knew what they were, even when I pretended I didn't. He was an outsider, one that seemed to bring something out in me that was hidden and stiffled. It was easy to ignore his cheesy lines and his lame attmepts to get me into bed as harmless fun. But then things got more pressing and the void in me grew larger. And you weren't here when I found out about Momma's stroke. He was. He pushed and he prodded and I, like some stupid bit of fluff, fell for it.

Thankfully you intreupted before anything really happened. I know that it looked bad from where you are standing, but honestly the kissing and my shirt being off was all there was. He left soon after you did. And I've not spoken to him, by phone or email in the week since it happened.

You are my everything. I know that you won't beleive me, but you are. You are my whole life. And if there is one thing that I will regret til the day I die, it will be that night. All I have to offer are the excuses that I have left here on these pages. All I have left to give is my heart and my sorrow over having hurt you so bad.

All I have left to look forward to is the day you can look at me in love again.

Dylan, my heart, please. Forgive me. I love you.

Emmie