It's a beautiful day. My husband and I are sitting together at a coffee shop. I'm working. He's writing in a step workbook. I can't stop smiling.
It is kind of a miracle to me the difference it makes that he's trying. He told me this morning about a slip. His mother gave him two hydrocodone pills a few weeks ago, and he took them. It doesn't matter to me. I feel none of the panic and none of the urge to flee that I've been feeling.
I'd suspected that all it would take for me to forgive him and be able to move forward with our life and our marriage was a concerted effort on his part to make his recovery a priority. Today, it's enough. I can't swear that a year from now I'll feel the same way, that attending a meeting every day and diligently avoiding the people, places, and things that he finds triggering will counterbalance his unemployment, financial tomfoolery, or other life-skills where he often falters...but today, it's enough. The air is warm on my skin. I'm doing work I love. It's enough.