To the father of my children, a stranger in familiar skin,

I’m not mad at you. I’m sad for you.

You’re missing everything.

I looked at you as I dropped my heart into your apartment this past Friday, the first one you’d had the boys for in over a month, and once again was reminded of your reality. I saw the emptiness in your eyes. The same emptiness I always saw. The same emptiness I tried to fill with me. With my love. With your sons. 

I heard the rasp in your voice that came from smoking too many cigarettes the night before. I knew you slept all day long because you were too sick to move. I understood you felt like death and I knew you weren’t going to be able to follow through with your obligation to our sons.

I smelled your hangover. And I remembered seeing you like this every…