Sixteen to Sixty - A Love Story

I don’t remember why we stopped seeing each other but I do remember that we always went back to each other.

And then we got married. But not to each other.

And then we had kids. But not with each other.

On and off for over thirty years I thought about him. Not in the heat of a fight, not in desperation or regret or longing, just in passing. And I would think he’s thinking of me too. He wouldn’t forget me. It’s not possible.

And one day I would see him again and I would tell him I love him. I would say I’ve always loved him.

For certainly you can love someone you haven’t seen in over thirty years.

***

The note passed to me from a classmate informed me that if I wouldn’t he would find someone who would. I couldn’t bear to lose him, so I prepared with a bottle of vodka before joining him in the back of his van. The fear of intimacy due to lack of experience and emotional immaturity broke me down into tears for as much as I loved him I just wasn’t ready. Sobbing I told him I understood I was losing him, and he laughed and told me he loved me. The first time he said that to me. And I was empowered. And I was safe. And I was more of a woman than I would have been had I succumbed to the threat of the classmate.  Picking petals off the daisy; he loves me, he loves me not, we settled on he loves me. And I carried that around with me as a secret in my pocket. He loves me.

It wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies as time went by.  Standing by the front door looking out into the night, hair and makeup done only to retreat back into my bedroom with the admission he wasn’t showing up. Before cell phones we counted on the verbal promise, I’ll see you tomorrow night at 9:00. Calling his house and having his mother answer yet again was humiliating, not an option. Did he make those plans when drunk and didn’t remember the following night or was he out with his friends too drunk to keep those plans? Either way left me with stomach pains.

The breakup was brutal lying in bed sick and heartbroken.

Then years later being each other’s plus one celebrating life events of others. We ran away for spontaneous romantic weekends finally reaching the maturity to enjoy each other in every way.  Half teasing and half serious we promised to marry if still single when turning thirty.  The office party where he conspired with my coworkers, tell her to marry me already. Why wait, marry me now. But there must be a reason to wait, we realized. Otherwise surely we would have taken the plunge.

My mother in her bluntness said I was in love with him even years into my marriage. Looking back, I wondered how she turned a blind eye to the comings and goings, the tears, and the laughter. She had refrained from advising me for or against, perhaps seeing in him the same things I did. And then the surprise visit long after I had relocated for a job offer settling down to raise my family out of state. He showed up at my childhood home updating my mother on his marriage and two daughters. She had asked me about him over the years, but I silenced her in front of my sons feeling somehow it was inappropriate to discuss.

And now our children were older than we were when we met. 

He, the father of girls. Did he worry when they dated, did he give them advice, or did he slip into the background allowing his wife to take on that responsibility?

And I, the mother of boys. After being mystified and obsessed with boys, I came to know the nature of the beast, cracking the mystery finally. They were my babies, soft and gentle and caring. They would never hurt a girl but treasure her instead.

Finding the family photos on her Facebook account I downloaded them ever so carefully for what if I clicked ‘like’ by accident? The eyes and smile that I knew showed up on the face of a middle-aged man. He was living a life I did not know. Maybe he did forget me for I was just a silly schoolgirl with a crush.

I studied the face, the body of the woman who took him away from me although I knew that was not an accurate assessment. Did she know me?  She did not seem his type, their home stuffy and overly decorated when he had been a simple boy shying away from fuss and attention. I imagined him feeling like a stranger in his own home retreating into a den or man cave to watch movies and drink beers. I was surprised that he was attracted to her for she was not me. I realized I had married first, telling him of my engagement over the phone the very last time we spoke. She was his rebound person, not his actual person, I consoled myself.

Any shift in decision would have changed the outcome dramatically. My sons disappearing, his daughters disappearing like a picture drawn on an etch a sketch and then shook until gone without a trace. We could have been a happy family of four, perhaps one boy and one girl creating the perfect dynamic. Would we have lasted or end in eventual divorce with me returning to my childhood home? Maybe I was destined to be alone back where I had started regardless of which path I chose.

***

Then that random Christmas Eve I rushed into the bakery for a box of cookies to bring to my parents’ house. Still honoring their vows for better or for worse, unfortunately sickness was in the lead over health as they approached the finish line. Keeping it simple we planned a light dinner and dessert in the house that held the secrets of my youth, the bedroom turned guest room where I spent many a night crying into the pillows after my divorce and licking my wounds getting back on my feet. Again, my mother supported me without interference. Standing in line holding my number tightly I wondered how many more holiday dinners fate would allow me to share with my parents, and I said a little prayer. Startled I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to face him. Like I knew I would. But I never knew when or where.

All these years later I once again became frozen by the fear of intimacy but not from lack of experience but rather lack of confidence. A bitter divorce with ugly words. A soft belly from pregnancies and then complacency. He brushed the hair out of my eyes, and I thought of the gray just beneath the surface around my temples and I cringed. The lines exposed on my forehead for him to see made me want to cry in shame and despair. He leaned in and kissed me like the boy from high school all those years ago when we were sixteen and not pushing sixty and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”