Last week, I posted about how I met my husband. I’m not a superstitious person, but it still sort of felt risky, in a way. When you talk about how good things are, that’s when it typically falls apart, right?
Just days later, shit hit the fan.
I do my cussing sparingly, but there is just no other way to put it.
It kind of amazes me that we could have been living together as teammates and life partners for more than 11 years and hadn’t been able to peel back the layers. Honestly, we hadn’t been forced to. It was easy to assume we could get away with not doing it.
But then we had to.
I was a young single mom with a four month old baby the first time I met my future husband. To his eternal chagrin, he doesn’t remember. We met at one of my good friend’s parents’ house for Easter dinner. We sat across from one another during the meal. At some point during the day, he showed me a photo of his girlfriend, but I don’t think we talked much.
I remember hearing him discuss philosophy with my friend’s dad in the next room later on. I liked the sound of his voice.
Three years later, my friend was getting married to his good friend, and we were both invited.
