By Ellise Ramos
Ellise Ramos is a Filipino-Canadian writer whose work explores motherhood, mental health, and the fragile architectures of intimacy. Drawing from lived experience, she writes with unflinching honesty about power, shame, resilience, and the quiet endurance of women rebuilding their lives. Her work has been published in various literary journals such as The Malahat Review, and blogs at bipolarandmotherhood.ca
It’s 7:41 PM and somehow I know he’s not calling.
I already knew it this morning when I woke up. Yet my heart still raced around 6 as it estimated.
This is the time he usually gets home.
Last night when my ex was berating me in a barrage of texts on why I couldn’t possibly succeed in my new apartment, at my new job, at my new life, I texted him out of desperation—despite him leaving my last text unresponded to. I needed to hear someone kind, because that’s how he introduced himself a few weeks ago. 'How he leads with kindness.'
So naively, I believed it. Of course.
Despite being 38 years old, having this exact thing happen just a month ago—a nice man, promises nice things, I come over and we have what I think, is an amazing time.
Having spent an entire decade with a man who controlled everything I did to the food I consumed that he deemed was too “unhealthy” for the family (him and his son, really, I just birthed the thing) until my weight went down to 90 pounds of frail bones and saggy skin.
Men thrilled hearing this for the first time, like actual songbirds, imagining how easily they could toss and throw me around on their bed. Like they were Hercules.
I knew he would in fact, never call, despite promising to do so. Because they start out so nice, don’t they?
And stay nice for a while that I lose all my grounding and start believing that maybe there are nice people out there who mean what they say. People who don’t get bored after they see the cesarean scar and loose, melting skin that comes with this petite frame.
The microscopic mountain of scars that Frankenstein my skin. A woman doesn’t get to this age without having fought a war or two.
They feel empathy instead, when they feel the ribs jutting out of my skin. Instead of pride or might, at having conquered something so tiny. Like something they can check off their bucket list of things they have used up and decimated.
All the signs were there, I just chose to ignore it. His diminishing replies. The mounting excuses.
"Work is too busy right now. Sorry I’m being shitty."
At least he said he was sorry. I remember thinking to myself, as I attempt to drag a compressed 200 pound pink couch the Amazon driver carried so easily with one hand while walking through black ice and so lackadaisically dropped at the bottom of my stairs. Leaving it up to me and physics apparently, to drag this thing twice my body weight to my 300 square foot living room.
It’s 7:54 PM and he is definitely not calling.
Even though I asked him last night.
Having just endured an entire day of text messages from the man who once promised to take care of me in front of all our family and friends, how he would systematically destroy my life until I have nothing. I just wanted to hear from someone nice, that was all.
I know I shouldn’t have asked, having no right. But I guess I also wanted to see finally what this truly was.
It no longer takes me ten long years before the roses creep away from my line of vision, I guess. My tears clear that up pretty fast. And at 38? I have no shame in crying my ass off while singing Frozen’s Let it Go at the top of my lungs in my crumbling red Kia Soul, whose engine light has been on since the day I purchased it for more than it’s worth from that overexcited car dealer about to make the killing of his life.
Absolute murder.
It’s 8:32 PM and he’s definitely not calling.
Last night he at least gave a reason. He said he needed to be with his friend. Before I left his couch that first night, I saw his eyes light up after reading a message on his phone, then promptly kicked me out with vague promises of hanging out again.
I put on my red, knee-high leather boots and trudged back on the snow, back to my car, making sure not to turn around and look back, just kept my head down, focused on not falling apart before I reached the car. I closed the door so heavily, the snow avalanched down my windshield, and waited a few minutes for the warmth to unfreeze my fingers, not knowing where to go next. Not really.
9:12 pm, and I’m still somehow–going.
