There is a note tucked into the center console of my husband’s truck that reads, with devotion and warmth: “I love you. We will get through this.”
I didn’t write it, and they didn’t get through it. The note is from his ex-wife.
When Ben and I began dating, it was difficult for us to start completely fresh. For years, I had reserved large swaths of memory for my previous spouse’s birthday, phone number, likes, wants and dreams. Now it’s Ben’s birthday I remember, along with his favorite ice cream flavor and go-to order from our local deli. But when I try to recite his cell number from memory, I still stumble through the digits.
Sometimes it’s hard for Ben to remember, too. Once, nearly a year into dating, he casually recalled that I was a July baby (his ex-wife’s birth month) and was mortified when I gently reminded him that I was born in November.
When we eloped on top of a mountain in western North Carolina, it wasn’t the first time we had exchanged vows with someone we promised to love for the rest of our lives. Occasionally, the details muddy themselves; the lines blur between what was and what now is.
When we share anecdotes about places we’ve been and things we’ve done, we nudge the ghosts of our pasts to leave space for us to discover more of each other. But they are always there, lingering, leaning in.
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