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Two snippets of time to be preserved in the amber of memory, polished until they gleam sun-bright.
True, I was a bit of a rascal, getting myself into this bind and that.” “Bind,” I murmured. “Now that is a word I have never heard used to refer to a lady’s private parts.”
Yet if time travel exists perhaps it is like yeast, an inexplicable but proven chemical reaction. Add yeast to the right ingredients, mix in the right environment, and you can make dough magically rise. Add a portal to a house, mix in the right circumstances, and you can blink through time.
My parents married for love and found wedded bliss, and so that would be my dowry: the freedom to marry the man of my choice.
In these four years, I’ve broken down more times than I can count. Those moments where I no longer wanted to live in a world bereft of every person I’d ever loved. Yet those black hours were spots of mold on a loaf of bread that I could not afford to throw away. Cut them out and move
I never feared a beating or even a slap. I just . . . I’d hit the point where I found myself going to ridiculous lengths to keep the waters of our marriage calm, and in the last few years, I’ve realized that was not my responsibility. As a couple, we needed to confront his insecurities, not buffer him from them.
He hurt me, and I am still here. It is not an unforgivable trespass. It is simply one that must be acknowledged.
“Yes, I did not. The problem is yours, and we must treat it as yours. I cannot allow your fear to infect me, and I absolutely will not allow it to infect our son.”
We should all have the things which bring us joy, and no one should be able to shame us for them.
