Would-be 25th Anniversary

Today would have been our 25th anniversary. That’s silver, isn’t it? Not that he would have gotten me anything. Well, I would have bought myself something, wrapped it, and he would have handed it to me, to “keep up appearances.”

I was young when I married him; too young, probably. But that’s what you did back then. You went away to college, met a man, came home engaged, and married him by the following spring. It was expected. I pretty much always did what was expected of me.

Richard was a good man. As friends, we got along quite well. My family liked him; so did I.

Less than five years into the marriage, I realized that, while he was a good man, he was not a good husband. Or maybe I wasn’t a good wife. We didn’t argue, at least not in front of anyone, but we usually got around that by simply not speaking to each other. There was very little we agreed on – whether I should work or stay home with the kids, how we spent our money, where we should live, who should do the housework.

I was miserable, but I stayed. For nearly 25 years, I stayed. Not for him. I didn’t owe him anything, and he would have understood if I left. No, I stayed for the children. They needed both of us – a mother and a father. So, I stayed.

I stayed right up until I didn’t have to anymore – when my youngest graduated and moved out of the house. We planned it that way, Richard and I. We didn’t tell the children, of course, but it had been planned for years. By the time I left, there were no tears, no hard feelings. The relationship was long over. This was just a formality.

And so, here I am, on the morning of my would-be anniversary, sipping coffee at the dining room table of my cozy apartment, alone. It sounds horrible, something I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy. And yet, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing. For the first time, I’m not living my life for anyone else’s sake. For the first time, I think I might be happy.