When You Fumbled The Haile Mary Meant To Save Us

 I threw it.

The final pass. The desperate, all-or-nothing play when the game was already lost in my chest but not yet on the scoreboard.
And somehow—he caught it.
Not with grace. Not like a man who trained for the moment. But with hesitation, confusion, and the first flicker of maybe.

It was the piece.
That piece.
The one where I dug through memories sharp enough to cut, opened the wound, and poured it on the page like gasoline. That shower scene. That beach. The quiet grief inside joy.
He knew every beat of it. He lived it too.
And when he read it—really read it—I felt the field shift.

For once, he didn’t run.
He didn’t twist it.
Didn’t weaponize it.
Didn’t shut the fuck down.
He paused. Sat in it. Thought.
And I thought—fuck, maybe.

Maybe this is our reset.
Not a comeback.
A new start.
A stronger team.

I let the silence settle like hope.

But then he came crashing into the huddle—fists first.
It wasn’t even a play. It was a flash.
A glitch in the matrix where the man who said he understood—who looked me in the eyes and claimed he heard me—forgot it all in an instant.

And I watched, again, from the sidelines of my own life…
as he squared up in front of our son.

That look in his eyes—the one I’ve had to pretend wasn’t real for years—was back.
And I had to move.
Had to get between them.
Had to protect my boy from the same man I’d handed my soul to the night before.

I had to scream to stop it.

And you know what he did?
He cried victim.
“It was a reaction.”
“I didn’t think.”
“I keep fucking up.”

He held the ball for two seconds
—and tripped over his own ego trying to sprint to redemption.

Every time I said, “You hurt me,”
he said, “But I hurt too.”
Every time I said, “I need you,”
he said, “What about me.”
Every time I begged, “Please focus on our son,”
he turned it into a therapy session about feeling invisible.

I didn’t need a bouncer, Thomas.
I needed a teammate.

I didn’t need a sob story.
I needed you to not fucking snap.

And when I told you I was scared—scared—you made that about you, too.
Turned my fear into an accusation.
Weaponized it into guilt.
Twisted the spotlight back like a pro.

You said I was throwing the past in your face—
while you were busy throwing your presence at our feet like it was some kind of gift.

And then came the worst part:
Not the silence.
Not the rage.
But the way you kept trying to sound like you were trying.

You said all the right words—
except they weren’t anchored to anything real.

No action.
No change.
No ownership.
Just another damn script from a man who thinks “I’m still here” counts as love.

Here’s what you missed:
I’m not here because I’m okay.
I’m here because I’m still fucking broken and too tired to move.
I’m waking up shocked I woke up at all.

I’m carrying everything—
Tristan, the trauma, the goddamn silence—
and still cooking dinner
while your guilt eats the last scraps of space I have left.

You want credit for staying?
Try showing up.

You want forgiveness?
Try doing one fucking thing that makes me feel safe.

You want to be heard?
Shut the fuck up and listen—without rerouting the conversation through your own damage.

Because I didn’t throw you that pass so you could drop it at the feet of the boy you’re scaring.
I didn’t write you my pain so you could use it as a distraction from your own responsibility.

I threw that Hail Mary because I was done—
but I still believed in you enough to try one more goddamn time.

And instead of running it into the end zone,
you faked like you would
—and fumbled the fucking ball.

Right in front of the kid who still called you “dad” after everything.
Right in front of the woman who still wrote your name in hope when she should’ve been packing her bags.

So no—
this isn’t a comeback.
This isn’t a redemption arc.

This is me looking at the field and finally realizing…
It’s not the game that’s killing me.
It’s the teammate who keeps tackling me mid-play and calling it love.