I just realized what has been bothering me for the last year or so. I’m alone.

Not presently. I have my wife of course. But if I were struck with some horrible debilitating condition, I’d only have her to rely upon.

I’ve got AD&D insurance, two life insurance policies, and insurance to cover everything if I can’t work. But if she and I were both sick, or I were hospitalized… I’ve got no one else.

No friends close by. No one to rely upon. No adults I can run to like when I was younger. Now I’m the adult. I’m the one people run to with problems.

And I’m not ready. I’m 37 and don’t have a fucking clue. I make this shit up day by day.

A part of me wants to run and retreat away from it all, to embrace a fundamental childishness that no matter what happens, someone is there. But that someone, the only one who ever cared, passed on to the next world six years ago this week.

Since 2014 I’ve been missing my step grandmother Iris, who was always my refuge away from my troubles at home.

Now it’s just Becky and me, alone against the world. I like it that way; since I met her 18 years ago I’ve never needed anyone else. She’s the part of me that was missing all my life.

But there’s no haven, no home, no refuge. Just temporary camps, stops in our journey. And that’s a hard, hollow feeling to have.