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But something between us had shifted over the course of our marriage, particularly the last two to three years. We had gone from being lovers to best friends to . . . roommates who routinely irritated each other. If I was honest with myself, that was what it felt like most of the time.
But even more than I wanted my husband to chip in, both financially and around the house, I wanted a peaceful home for my family. (And let’s face it—for myself.) So instead of yelling, I rolled up my sleeves and finished the pots and pans and then ran to the market to buy eggs and milk. I kept my lips zipped about just how heavily life had been weighing on me lately.
If you’re not happy, make a change.
Shortly after I graduated from high school, my mother attempted to reinsert herself into my life after more than a decade of being a nonentity. She seemed genuinely remorseful—a wretched childhood had led her to make a terrible decision, she claimed. But she was ready to be the mother she should have been all those years. I fell for it. I fell so hard that two months later, when she moved to Arizona with a man she had just met and stopped taking my calls, I considered—for the first and only time—whether it was worth it to continue living. Because if my own mother could not love me, then who
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Kristie
Close female friendships are built one secret at a time. What Jenny had concealed did not undo all we had shared; I would miss her for the rest of my life. But as I watched my husband gesturing animatedly to my father, I was profoundly grateful that I still had one person with whom I could share these thoughts, and the many ideas and experiences—and, yes, mistakes—that would follow. Above my family, the sun was beaming in the cloudless blue sky. I wondered if Jenny was up there somewhere, or in the air around me, or at least a part of the universe somehow. Wherever she was, I only hoped she
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