Dear Kevin,
Almost fourteen years ago, I walked down a candlelit aisle toward you, carrying a bouquet of roses in my trembling hands and you gazed at me as if I was all you’d ever dreamed. We whispered forever, vowing for better or for worse, having no earthly idea of what that really meant. We have some idea now, don’t we love? Then, we only knew thumping hearts, and dreams spoken between breathless sighs in a world where happy endings always came true.
I had no way to know that sometimes marriage means dancing under the moonlight on a private balcony on a honeymoon in Paris. And sometimes, sometimes marriage means waking to your husband swaying in the corner, your lifeless baby in his arms, as he quietly sings her the ABCs because it’s the only “lullaby” he knows. Sometimes marriage means both of your hearts silently breaking in a dim hospital room.
And you, my love, you had no way to know that sometimes marriage means strawberry waffles and laughter on a Sunday morning. And sometimes marriage means a wife who slams doors and collapses in tears, and screams at you out of pain and grief and then hopes you’ll find it in your heart to comfort her anyway.
You’ve always found it in your heart.
We had no way of knowing, did we?
We had no way of knowing about the fights and the silence, the turning away and the bitterness. We had no way of knowing the fathomless depths to which love can go, the private jokes that are only ours, the familiar hand that grasps in the darkness, and the way our mattress dips where we meet in the middle.
We’ve met in the middle again and again, haven’t we?
And that’s really what marriage has to become. For true love isn’t about candlelight and roses. God, I wish it was. True love is always at least a little bit about sacrifice, about forgiveness, about turning back when you’ve turned away. We had no way of knowing.
We had no way of knowing about the five babies who would come as I gripped the hospital sheets and screamed through the pain, and your eyes widened and you fed me ice chips like you were the CEO of Ice Chip Feeding—the five babies who would once again change everything, each in their own unique way.
Sometimes I think back to the things I first noticed about you. The way you boyishly glanced at me and looked away, and glanced back at me again. The way your full lips parted over those perfectly straight teeth. The way your dark hair fell over your forehead and the way you brushed it away. The way you looked at me as if I was the only girl on earth.
You say you saw me first, and yet, I swear it was me. I saw you walking toward my friend and I and noticed in a glance how handsome you were. I braced myself because I thought my friend was prettier than me, better hair, better everything and I just knew you’d approach her first. Why wouldn’t you? But when you walked up to us, you looked straight at me and never looked away.
Just as you’ve never looked away since.
I told you once about the boy I dated before you, the one who told me I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room. “I think he was joking . . . I guess . . .” I’d let the words fade away as I offered an uncomfortable laugh and shrugged my shoulders. But you must have seen the hurt on my face because you lifted my chin and looked right into my eyes and said, “He was wrong.” I wanted to look away, but I didn’t because I saw your whole heart right in your expression and I swear to you, it healed me more than a thousand therapy sessions ever could.
Sometimes marriage is about not letting the other person look away
English