My partner of 12 years left me - for another man.

Last night, still in shock over my discovery of this "other man," I wondered if I would need to begin again the healing process I started 23 days ago. Just a few hours shy of 24 hours later, I realize the answer is both "yes" and "no." "Yes" in that I was completely unprepared for what I discovered (even as I had suspected and consciously sought to discover it), and the pain shot through my body like a wind, billowing through the pages of my internal calendar and effectively flipping it back to December 21. "No" in that the information itself, no matter how painful, changes nothing. My partner of 12 years left me. Three new words - "for another man" - do not change the first part of that sentence.

I went to sleep and dreamed of Ex for the first time during the breakup. He was telling me about Sven, how much Ex cared for him, but when I expressed concern, Ex said I had no reason to be worried; of course he'd always be with me and love me more. I was relieved, and the relief temporarily stayed with me as I woke up on my air mattress in the living room. Then, of course, I realized that I was sleeping on my air mattress in the living room. The relief disappeared, replaced by a dull sting. For a moment I considered staying in bed all day, but I had a 2:00 PM appointment. I trudged out of bed and took a shower, thinking of Ex and Sven the entire time.

Not my new apartment, but close enough :)

My appointment was with Acif, my superintendent's nephew. The super's friend had botched the floors in the new apartment, and I'd discovered an alarming number of cracks in the bathroom walls that needed to be spackled. The super summoned Acif, who proceeded to apply a second layer of varnish to the floor and patch up the cracks in the walls. Acif would return today at 2:00 PM to sand and paint the bathroom while I attacked the many layers of crud caked into the kitchen floor.

Acif may not be an especially gifted house painter - the bathroom came out splotchy and will require a second coat - but I was glad for his company. He arrived at 2:15 and said he needed a sanding block (which he didn't have), so I drove the two of us to Home Depot. On the way, I told him my partner and I were separating after 12 years (I can't remember if he actually asked why I was moving, but I told him anyway). Acif seemed uncomfortable. This might have been the result of his height - at over six feet tall, he couldn't sit in the passenger seat of my Honda Fit so much as he had to fold himself into it. He also might have been understandably taken aback by my sudden, personal disclosure. Either way, he shifted awkwardly at my mention of Ex. Perhaps he hadn't known many gay people, at least not Jewish ones. I hadn't known many 26-year-old Trinidadian house painters. In this sense, I imagine I appeared as awkward to him as he did to me.

Gradually both of us began to relax. I asked Acif if he'd thought about going to college. (The professor in me seems compelled to ask at least one college question of every new acquaintance.) He said he might want to go to a technical school and specialize in welling. Welling? Gee, I'd never heard of that. Welling, as in digging for oil? "Oil, offshore, underwater," he said. It took another few beats for me to realize he'd said "welding," not "welling." Acif chuckled. A few minutes later, as we searched the enormous isles of Home Depot for a sanding block, he made a personal disclosure of his own. A year ago, his girlfriend had left him for another man and become pregnant by this man only a month later. "Best thing to do is move on, get with a new person as quick as you can." I told him I didn't expect to be dating for quite some time. "No, then you're lonely. I'm not talking about sex, no freaky stuff. You feel me? Someone to be with, talk to."

I felt him. And the moment he finished painting and departed, I felt his absence, the emptiness of the apartment - the feeling of not having someone to be with and talk to whenever you like. This might be my biggest challenge. I'm accustomed to having a thought - any thought, really - and knowing I can call to the next room to share it with someone on the spot. Living without that someone - living completely by myself - may be the most difficult adjustment.

But then, of course, there's the phone. My dad called. I'd spoken to him the day before - yesterday was his 67th birthday - and he was calling back to check up on me. I told him the news - the three new words in Ex's and my breakup equation - and his reaction was less impatient than on Day 9. In fact, he was downright sympathetic - always matter-of-fact, but sympathetic nonetheless.

I'm not used to sympathy from my father. I know he loves me and my sister dearly, but while my mother tends to our emotional well being, my father has always been more concerned about our finances. Coming of age in the 1950s, he is every bit the hot-tempered, Italian patriarchal who, for most of his life, defined his manhood - his worth - by the amount of dollars he earned, the amount he saved, and the amount he distributed to us, his family, as our chief provider. He earned these dollars as a therapist and, at age 67, has yet to retire. As a teenager, I resented his lack of bedside manner at home. How could he be so harsh with my sister and me? Surely he was more sympathetic to the emotional needs of his patients. "Sympathetic to their needs," he exclaimed with a smirk. "Do you know what I tell a patient who says, 'Please doctor, help me, I'm unhappy?' I tell them, good! If you were happy all the time, then there would really be something wrong with you."

As my sister recently pointed out to me, my father may be more emotionally attentive than we realize. He razes us with questions such as "When are you going to get a real job?" (reserved for me) or "What are you going to do with your life?" (reserved for my sister, until she started law school), then he kicks at the debris by scolding us for not earning enough or doing enough to turn the situation around to his satisfaction. True to form, tonight he brought up the question of when was I going to get a real job? (Frankly, it's a valid question.) But what I hadn't expected him to do, and what he may have been doing all along but without my awareness, was listen. He listened to me. He uttered small words - "right," "yes" - that made me know he was listening. When he spoke in full sentences, his usual dryness returned, but even then, he was listening.

Echoing my Facebook friend from Day 18, he said, "I'm glad this happened. You were always second fiddle in that relationship. Here [Ex] is, he goes to school, he gets a tenured position, and you're always backing him up, but you aren't going anywhere. I'm not going to say I'm not happy this happened. The only thing I'm unhappy about is it didn't happen sooner."

This may sound harsh, but somehow it was exactly what I needed to hear. I disagreed with his assertion that I "hadn't gone anywhere"; I've accomplished many things over the past 12 years, and I reminded my dad that I'd played a key role in many of Ex's accomplishments. "True, but now you can focus that energy on yourself. I don't regret this because I think great things with happen to you because of it."

Perhaps this is exactly how my father speaks to his patients. It may have been the therapist in him who was talking to me, or it may have been the father. Either way, at that moment, it was exactly what I needed to hear.