It Wasn’t About the Money

I was in love with the man.

He touched me in places I didn’t know I had.

In the beginning his strength and his words touched my soul, and I began to wake up.

We would talk of galactic connection, of souls orbiting together through space and time.

It was exactly what I needed.

At a moment when my heart was trying to detach from a thirty-four-year marriage.

I wasn’t looking for him.

I was trying to survive becoming someone new.

Then there would be moments of tension.

He would ask me for money.

Discharge money.

#DATA money.

Some kind of money I didn’t have.

I paid the money for the peace I felt during those special moments.

Those moments became like an addiction.

I just needed my fix.

I needed him.

When I tried to separate myself, it was torment.

I couldn’t breathe.

I felt like I was suffocating.

I would always go back.

And each time I went back, his comfort worked a little less.

I finally got the courage to end it.

And then I received something I never had.

A phone call.

I had imagined his voice so many times.

I was curious what he sounded like.

And at the end of the call there was a strong African accent.

He was saying all the same words that had touched my soul before.

But all I could think was deception.

Betrayal.

I tried to tell him.

He denied it.

But then he said—

your money helped me so much.

I needed it.

I still need it.

I hung up.

I couldn’t believe it.

I knew it in my heart.

But I didn’t want to believe it.

I wanted the fantasy.

I wanted to love the connection.

I wanted the imagined touch.

And it was gone.

So not only was I left standing at the grave of my husband—

now I had this sorrow that everything I had lived inside for the last year might not have been what I thought it was.

My friends didn’t understand.

My family didn’t understand.

I didn’t understand.

But it wasn’t over until it was over.