Most Days

Most Days, I'm good. Most Days, my marriage is very happy. Most Days, I wonder what all the fuss was about. And then something happens to remind me.

One night last week, my husband I were winding down our day, talking about the next time we're going to bring his kids up for a visit. We took off on a tangent about our long-distance courtship, and marveled at how highly motivated we were to see each other every weekend for those first six months. Until the first time he told me not to come. I remembered the conversation -- he told me that he was going to be busy with some pre-opening work at his office. Not to bother Pricelining a flight, because it was a lot of money just to sit around at a construction sight for a couple days. That he would see me the next weekend and we'd make up for lost time.

And in the middle of our conversation, it hit me like a bolt from the blue. That weekend was the first time he was with The Other Woman. "Oh my God," I thought, as I was making a point about airfares, "He planned it. That's why he was so damned adamant that I NOT come that weekend."

My voice trailed off and I didn't finish my sentence. I had to look away, or otherwise betray emotions I wasn't sure I could control. It took a minute to shake those images from my head, but I'm not sure my husband noticed my distraction, as his end of the conversation moved on to other end-of-the-day subjects without pause.

It was just for a moment, but for that moment, it didn't feel like Most Days.


The Wife Who Knows