Dear Amanda,

We have never met and probably never will. This note to the ex-girlfriend thing has been done before – it’s tired and unoriginal – regardless, I had to write to you.

Today while my baby napped, my husband and I slow danced in our kitchen to Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You.” While we rocked back and fourth to the song, I wept in his chest and squeezed his shoulder blades so hard it probably hurt him. As he quietly held me, resting his bearded cheek into my forehead, I thought of you.

You have given me everything I cherish. You, a stranger, may have set the winds of fate in my direction. You were Trevor’s first love; you precariously managed his heart through high school and University. Everyone was stupid back then.

They say that what one person discards, another person will relish. You did a little more than discard him. You hurt him. You cheated and lied and used him. Although I would give my arm to protect him, I don’t harbor any animosity towards you. The pain you caused him, the bruises you clobbered his love with turned him into my husband. Because of the pain you caused him he developed an unwavering sense of empathy for wounded hearts. He is unable to lie to me, he is unable to hurt me.

I needed what you didn’t. Maybe you wanted something flashy, unpredictable and adventurous. I hope you are content and fulfilled; I want that for all people.

My husband, your discard, is patient and kind. The kind of kind that drives friends to the airport and helps them move on a weekend. The kind of patient that waits in the waiting room for an hour for every ultrasound appointment, just to see his embryo jump for 60 seconds on a screen. My husband, your discard, can see the beauty behind all imperfections. The kind of eye that still craves my touch even when I’m unwashed and carrying excess weight. My husband, your discard, is never judgmental. The kind of open heart that takes his son to Women’s Marches and Gay Pride Parades. My husband, your discard, is fair. Fair in the way that he does laundry and washes dishes without an ounce of negotiating. My husband, your discard is romantic. Romantic in the way that he saved all his vacation days to take me to Europe for a month to see the world before our baby was born. My husband, your discard, is so strong. Strong in the way that he held and maneuvered my heavy, paralyzed body for 36 hours while I labored. Strong in the way that he never sweat a single bead in my presence while we agonized for a week in Sick Kids with our sick kid, “only one of us can lose it at a time; this is your time, babe”. My husband, your discard, is sexy. Sexy in the way that I always cum first; my pleasure is a priority to him. My husband, your discard, is proud. The kind of pride that lets me hold court at parties and asks to read everything I have ever written.

Amanda, you gave me Trevor. You shaped him with your mistakes, into the most beautiful man I have ever met. His love for me created our son. A son that has my lashes and his blue eyes. A son that has his even temper and my determination.

Thank you Amanda for the incredible life you have given me.

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Erica Moore is an Interior Designer with a degree in Fine Arts and Literature. She is a wife, and mother to 2 dogs and 1 baby. She is also a very hilarious human being. Check out her blog and keep up with her on Instagram.

THE REBEL MAMA’S HANDBOOK FOR (COOL) MOMS COMING SOON!

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Featured Image: Wedding Stationary by Mickey Loves Jacqui