Cut me and I will bleed

This separation thing is a tricky business. The what-if thoughts are never far away.
Yesterday, in the middle of the mall, I decided I did not want to be separated any more; that I wanted to be with my estranged husband. That's it and that's all. So I rang him. Stupid. But fortunately, rather than saying: That's it, please come back, I really want to try again, I managed to say, um, I've bought Fairy Mary a birthday card and I'll write your name on it too.
I had a little cry, a little sit in the sun, and went about my day.
I know I didn't mean it, well, I thought I knew I didn't mean it. It's just that the dryer's busted and the heat lamp in the ensuite is busted and our firstborn is 16 and it's cold at night.
And I'm a touch pathetic.
But, tonight, actually having him to dinner with his family for the birthday celebrations, helped me get back on the straight and narrow. I don't want to be married to him anymore. I don't want to live with him anymore. I love him, and always will. But it's the idea of our marriage that holds the appeal, not the actual marriage.
The dagger through the heart was my complimenting him on his choice of up to the minute jewellery for his daughter. How did you know it was so cool, I asked, knowing instantly I didn't want to hear the answer. He couldn't take credit for the selection, he said. He'd had help. Of course he had. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But cut me and I will bleed.