A SHORT STORY IN PROSE TO AN EX:

EXERCISING COMMON COURTESY INFUSED WITH THE SLIGHTEST MODICUM OF RESPECT AND A DASH OF KINDNESS…

That would have been good. Not this thoughtless and uncaring, cold slap in the face — my face — that stung as I drove by 125 P Street yesterday.

Perhaps that was a bit too harsh; you have a lot of things going on. And I’m sure you didn’t mean it.

We were married and living under the same roof at 125 for eleven years. I bought the house in the late 1980s with a little help from my side, my family. Price? $335,000.00 give or take a couple of thousand dollars, if my memory serves me.

We were lucky to get out of the condo at 62 C Street, our previous domicile in the next town over, for $180,000.00 essentially breaking even. (Basement was a shithole literally if you recall). Very lucky.

I bought that one too, but being eight years your senior and working for that much longer then, I could do it. You were thrilled with both places as was I.

When we decided that our marriage wasn’t going to work, I moved out and rented a place around the corner at 66 C Road. You found it, I did not. (Thank you for finding it).

I lived on the first floor under a young married couple with a newborn. A year later when they were about to put the large two-family on the market to move back to their native Wisconsin — essentially leaving my behind out in the cold once again — I used my salesmanship skills to convince them to simply sell the place to me.

Quite a salesman I was and am; it cost me $611,000.00. A bargain at twice the price, no? Best thing I ever did for all of the reasons so obvious, our kids’ healthy upbringing at the top of the list.

They could walk over in five minutes without crossing a main street.

In our divorce agreement which took over 10 years to craft and draft for a host of reasons, I gave you everything except the kids’ education costs — daunting and formidable to grossly understate — including the house at 125 P Street.

It was and it is. It’s in there; take note.

So we move on.

But driving by 125 and seeing a piece of my mother and father’s furniture — which you had to have I might add — on the curb awaiting trash pick-up because you are cleaning out the house to sell it, so as to help finance your next dream place in N. T. is a bit much.

More than a bit much. Much more. I can’t tell you how that hurt my feelings.

You might have asked me if I had any interest in the stuff; you know what my answer would have been. At the very least you could have given me a heads-up; after all, I drive by all the time.

Let me tell you how I deal with that. I look at the bigger picture. I remind myself that nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing good things happen to those about whom I care and whom I love — good people.

You of course are one of them. And in terms of this particular happenstance I know in my heart that there was no malice aforethought on your radar. There very rarely — if ever — is. Just not in your makeup.

Our lives have taken different turns. Vagaries. That’s what life is.

I applaud you on your many successes.

I have had success myself and will again.

But one of the many differences between us is that I can look in the mirror and be proud of what I see and what I represent.

You can too.

Just not in this case. And I am truly sorry because you are infinitely better than that.

[Editor’s Note: This piece was written by Mr. Kaplan in August 2017.]