Husband Chronicles, Part Two: Ruben

Husband One.

Let’s start here: he was friends with my brother, and he was fine. The man looked almost exactly like the lead singer of Hoobastank.

This guy:

I saw him and every rational thought I owned packed a bag and left the building. I was immediately, embarrassingly obsessed.

For a while, he only paid attention to me because of my brother. My brother was wild back then — the kind of wild where nobody inside or outside our circle dared cross him — so being “the twin sister” bought me a certain amount of proximity. I took FULL advantage. Showed up to every party he might be at. Dressed to impress. Full Moe charm.

We exchanged numbers at a party at his place one night. He was finally paying true attention to me. Texted a little. Chatted here and there. Nothing that would’ve made a good movie — yet.

Then he invited me over to hang out.

You already know where this is going. We ended up in bed together, and the second it was over, before I even caught my breath, one thought landed like a brick through a window: I’m pregnant. I shoved it down, told myself I was being dramatic, and moved on with my life.

He ghosted me almost immediately after. Read my texts, never responded. Ignored my calls. Didn’t show up to anything I might be at. Like — gone.

Eight weeks later: two pink lines.

I called him. He made it very, very clear he wanted nothing to do with me or the baby. I made it equally clear I was keeping this baby and raising this baby, with or without a single ounce of his help.

Fast forward seven months.

I’m in the hospital, freshly out of an emergency C-section, and Joshua is brand new and perfect and screaming his lungs out in that beautiful newborn way. Still loopy from recovery, I ask my mom, “Has anyone called Ruben?” She promises she will.

The next morning, he shows up. Flowers in hand. Dressed like he was trying to win something. He’s in awe of Joshua. Holds him like he’s made of glass. I’ll never forget how he gushed over looking at this baby that was basically a carbon copy of him. I mean — look at them:

Then he climbs into the hospital bed with me and our son and tells me how badly he wants to be a husband and a father.

Six weeks later, in my parents’ living room, we got married. My dad officiated, my mother showed her support (despite her reservations), my sister was my maid of honor, and our boys were the only other witnesses.

Four months after that?

I caught him in bed with a man.

I’ll wait while you let that sink in.

Now — try to picture the gravity of this situation. I am nineteen years old. I am postpartum. Hormones all over the place. Sleep deprived at a level you cannot imagine. A brand-new wife, one who only ever wanted to be a wife — and I’m smacked in the face with infidelity. Not the kind you might anticipate, but the kind you never prepare for. I mean, is anyone ever ready to catch their hetero partner in a same-sex affair?

No.

The answer is no.

So I did what any normal, hormonal, blindsided nineteen-year-old would do: I lost it.

His response?

To choke me out.

When I came to, I packed my things, packed my baby, and left while he was asleep.

We were divorced before our first anniversary.

On the walk out of the courthouse, Ruben awkwardly ended up walking side by side with us. I looked at my father, gestured towards Ruben, and said, “Have you met my ex-husband?” Then I laughed, WITH MY WHOLE MOTHER FUCKING CHEST, and I was proud of myself. So proud.

We didn’t speak again for twelve years. He hasn’t seen Joshua since his first birthday. Never paid a dime of child support. My favorite part of his attempted reach-out when Joshua was twelve? Joshua left him on read. Sweet payback.

Thank you, son. Thank you.

Reason number 5,672 that he’s my best friend.

And here’s the part I want to be really clear about: I don’t care. Not in a wound-I’m-pretending-doesn’t-exist way — in a genuinely-closed-book way. Good riddance. Husband One taught me exactly what I didn’t want, and honestly? That’s a valuable lesson, even when it comes wrapped in flowers and a bad decision in a hospital bed.

As Ariana would say: thank you, next.