Well, peeps. Looks like I have some bad news for you all. Sorry.
The Irishman? Done. Over. Finished.
Sorry to disappoint. I know a lot of you liked hearing about him and the idea that I, a 40-year old single momma, could have a little true-life, fairytale romance.
And it so started out that way.
But as many people have pointed out, fairy tales always end at the beginning of relationships. So you never find out that Cinderella is a pill popper and that Prince Charming solicits prostitutes online after the wifey is asleep. (Not that any of that was happening here, btw.)
So yeah, you probably want to know what happened. But dearest blogmuffins, you know I can’t get into all that super-personal stuff on the bloggity.
Let’s just say that while I (and nearly everyone else) found the Irishman to be a lovely person, he has some issues going on in his life that I cannot take on.
While I define myself as someone who stands by the people I love when they’re down, I found that I had to make some hard choices this time around.
I kept thinking to myself: If you see someone drowning do you jump in and try to save them, knowing that they might pull you under with them?
At one point in my life, I might have jumped in. I would’ve given it some serious thought, anyway.
But now, my kids are on the shore with me.
It’s my main job in this life to take care of those two little people. Anything that’s going to jeopardize my ability to do that is a no.
So that is that.
These issues have been brewing for months and, in fact, the Irishman and I haven’t seen each other much since the spring. So this final ending does not come as a shock. I’m OK.
Am I disappointed? Yes.
Hurt? A little.
Sad? Sure. For many, many reasons.
Relieved? Most definitely.
In the grand scheme of things, I know this was the only possible solution for me. There’s peace in that.
Time for the next chapter.