They say marriage is built on trust. But what happens when, after 43 years, you realize there are corners of your husband’s soul you’ve never stepped into? Corners holding secrets large enough to shake the foundation you thought was unshakable?
Tom and I met when I was 22, he was 24. Six months later, we married in my parents’ backyard. There were no wedding planners or monogrammed napkins—just folding chairs, dandelions in my hair, and hope spilling from our smiles.
We built a life in a modest three-bedroom house, the kind with squeaky porch steps and faded paint but plenty of history etched into every crevice. Tom worked as a janitor at the local elementary school. I sold women’s clothes downtown. Our two kids, Michael and Sarah, grew up on secondhand sneakers and peanut butter sandwiches, but they never lacked love.
