Cat allergies.

meow.

Divorce feels unnatural. A forced justification for breaking something that was once promised to last. It dresses itself up as growth, as self-care, as necessity — but at its core, it is still catastrophic.

While I never wanted divorce, here I sit in my completely empty home, quietly enjoying the silence. Quietly reveling in the relief.

No one is screaming for food. No child is punching another child. No shrill, normally adorable giggles drilling into my forehead like needles. The noise — gone.

I can pour a cup of coffee and drink it slowly. No one waltzes into the kitchen and steals from my sacred cup with an unceremonious slurp. No small hands knock it over mid-sip. The coffee stays hot. The silence stays intact.

I have to enjoy it. That’s what everyone says.

Somehow, I find myself questioning the nature of this relief, and it is in this questioning that the peace slowly dissipates, replaced instead with emptiness. This relief was forced upon me. Yes, all mothers need rest, but the way in which I have earned this rest is, in its nature, perverse.

I rest not to step back into the arena with a loving partner by my side. I step back in alone. It is life or death. This is necessity; it isn’t fun. It is survival. If I do not recuperate, my children suffer. I suffer — physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. If I do not fill my cup with rest and repurpose it toward planning and chores, the time I do have with my children quickly turns to chaos and disorder.

You married ladies may argue, well that is the same for me. Well, no, it isn’t. You have your husband. Whatever fallacies the man has, whatever silly man-silliness he does not do or forgets to say — you have another human there for you. With you. Holding you. Even if only as a physical presence.

I suppose this is how soldiers returning from the trenches felt in World War I. They would return home to “rest,” however the reason for their needed rest was not exhaustion from joyful fulfillment, but because there was a battle raging on.

It reminds me of the time my best friend told me she was visiting England. She asked me to watch her cat. It was cute. Fat and fluffy. I liked it — but only because I knew it was temporary. I have a mild cat allergy.

Then I received an email from her saying she had decided she wasn’t coming back, and I could keep the cat.

And I was left with this adorable, fluffy creature named Bella purring on my lap —

—but no best friend.