By which I mean not you, of course, but my first husband, who I left long ago and far away, so I could take up with a younger man who later became mentally ill and then, after I spent years taking care of him, had the nerve to up and die. The second husband was in a dream the other night, and he was looking for a place to live, and he was short on cash, which was the story of our relationship during those years he was ill, and I told him not to worry (in the dream), that he could come stay at my house, except I we had no spare room, but that I would move out of my room and put a cot in my office and I would sleep there, and he could have the bedroom.

(Where was my current husband in this? Surely he might have objected? Though to him Stew, the second husband, was like a younger brother.)

But then, and we’re still in the dream here, I remembered that we had a spacious spare room that came with its own bathroom, and the ex-husband could stay there, and he’d have his own space and be well cared for, even if he was sick.

I dream about him because he will always be a part of my life, even though I didn’t have as much time with him as I had with my first husband, and in my dreams I still keep reconciling his absence with my present life, which is wonderful, true, but I’d planned on having him around forever, not as a husband, because I have one, but as a friend. And so he keeps popping up in my dreams as if he’s still here.

But not my first husband. Occasionally he might pop up, in a cameo appearance, as a reminder of what I left behind, and when he does I wake up refreshed that I have this whole new life which did nothing but improve after I left him, even during the worst of times.

For years and years the first husband didn’t contact me. At first his mail would occasionally get forwarded to me, which was how I found out he was arrested, and I sent the papers the court had sent to me to him. Several years ago he called to tell me he’d received a package addressed to me. I’d just moved, so the package had tried to find its way to me, but instead of being forwarded, it went back in time, and somehow ended up with my first husband at his house in Ohio – a house his mother had left him when she died that he’d recently moved into, a house I had never lived in. I’d never lived in Ohio at all, much less in that house. But my package had found its way there, and he said he’d forward it to me.

He never did, but this was no surprise. He rarely did anything he ever said he’d do, like remember that he owed me money from an investment account we’d held, money I could have used, or when he’d promise that he’d stop being a drunken sot (“But I’m thirsty,” he’d say, before downing another 12 pack in an evening), or when he’d . . . never mind. Let’s just say the man was full of promises that meant nothing.

When I left I told him he could keep his military retirement, that I wouldn’t even claim what I was legally entitled to after 20 years of following him around the world on his endless quest to find the one place where he could be happy, and there was no reason to keep in contact.

But last year he started texting me. And since I still feel guilty for having had the nerve to change his life in ways he hadn’t imagined, I answered his texts.

Don’t get me wrong. If I had it to do all over again, I would. And it wasn’t as if I’d never warned him.

And the texts themselves aren’t so bad. But when he calls? I’m reminded all over again of why I left, and I thank Stew, the second husband for those of you who haven’t been following this, for giving me the nerve to do it. Sometimes he’s drunk when he calls, and if he’s not well behaved I tell him I won’t talk to him like that, and I hang up.

Mostly he just wants to reminisce about a past that never existed. He doesn’t remember how it really was, and that’s probably because he was drunk at the time.

Amusingly, he has a complete block about Stew, as if he’d never existed at all. I always bring Stew up, somehow, because I want him to remember that Stew existed, but every time I do he responds as if he has no idea who I’m talking about. Last week when he called and we were talking about disability and I had my own Stew disability story to relate I resorted to saying, “Stew! My second husband! The one after you!” And then there was silence while he tried to process that information. Then he asked if I was talking about my dad.

My first husband is lazy. This is not news. He doesn’t like where he’s at because it’s a small town and he thinks people talk about him. So he’s lazy and paranoid. After his military retirement he drifted around trying to decide what to do with himself. Then his mom died and left him her house, and he’s been there ever since, but he refuses to do any upkeep on the place. It’s older and starting to fall apart, but he doesn’t care. He plans on moving away. Where? He doesn’t know.

He worked as a surgery tech for awhile, and now thinks he can’t get a job, and when I say, “But you should be able to, in your field,” he replies with, “But I don’t want to do that again. I had to stand up all day.”

Poor boy. His previous occupations didn’t work out either. Harley mechanic. County employee. Nothing has ever worked out for him. He’s never liked any place he’s been, and is always certain there’s a better place. Same for jobs. Same for everything. Except for wives. For that he’s remained certain that I’m still the best and can never be replaced.

I’m sure he’s right.

And each time he initiates contact, for it’s never me, always him, I am reminded of why I am so lucky to be where I am and with the charming husband. People may think I’m too damned cheerful sometimes, which isn’t necessarily true, but I hide the bursts of uncontrollable anger and despair, but if you’d been in that marriage and are now free of it you’d be pretty damned cheerful all the time too. He’s the same person he always was, but I barely recognize the person I was.

He wants to be friends. It’s not going to happen. Nothing personal, you understand. We just have nothing in common. We never did.