“For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first.” ~ Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games
I had a habit of rubbing my thumb against it and adjusting it to sit perfectly around my finger. It was always a little big on me, but I didn’t mind it because its looseness was a reminder to me that it was on my finger. I looked at it frequently, and was proud of what it symbolized: I belonged to him, and he belonged to me.
I took it off last week, and have not put it back on. I rub my thumb against the empty finger, and I feel the ridge of my finger where the ring once was. The emptiness of that finger reminds me of what I have lost, and of what was never mine.
He dropped the bomb on me on a sunny Saturday summer morning: He and she are expecting a baby, and it is a boy – a baby, a boy that I had prayed to conceive during all these months that I had been undergoing fertility treatments. I was unable to conceive, and now my dream was going to become another woman’s reality.
All I feel now is betrayed. By him, by God, by everyone. I put my trust out there, only to have it explode in my face and shatter my heart.
I am not sure that I will be able to recover.