I grew up with sand in my socks and salt on my skin, and the knowledge that when I was old enough to decide where I lived, it would be miles away from the ocean.
It was one of the few things we had in common.
“I don’t understand why people obsess over living near the sea,” you said when I told you where I was from. “I’m a city dweller, through and through.”
So was I. Escaped the first chance I had. I loved London. Busy, noisy, anonymous. Enough bars that being kicked out of one didn’t matter. Enough jobs that losing one meant finding another the next day. Enough beds that sliding out of one never left me lonely.
If I hadn’t met you, I’d still be there. Maybe you would be, too.
We wouldn’t be together.
We’d have parted ways after a few weeks, on to pastures new. Different arms, different bars.
I remember the first morning at Oak View. You were still sleeping, your hair messed up and your lips a fraction apart. I lay on my back and I fought the urge to leave. To tiptoe down the stairs with my shoes in my hand and get the hell out of there.
Then I thought of our unborn child. Of the stomach I’d once run my fingers over and now couldn’t even bear to touch. Taut as a drum. Big as a beach ball. Anchoring me to this bed. To this life. To you.
Twenty-five years of marriage. It would be wrong to say I was unhappy for all that time; equally wrong to suggest that I was happy. We coexisted, both trapped in a marriage that convention wouldn’t let us leave.
We should have been braver. More honest with each other. If one of us had left, we both would have had the lives we wanted.
If one of us had left, no one would have blood on their hands.