I was 30, and for two years I hadn’t been running (the unhealthy kind) or looking for greener grass. I was in the best relationship I’d ever had, and I couldn’t have been happier.
At 31, I got a promotion that meant moving to a new town. Again, I couldn’t have been happier. It was only 30 minutes away, so we’d still be close to family. He decided to keep working in the town we’d left. I never questioned it.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving, the year I turned 32. I was so settled that I was making brunch for his family and dinner for mine. I was barking orders, as I do when I’m trying to make everything perfect, and suddenly I heard my beloved say, “I’m leaving.”
Excuse me?
I’m pretty sure I asked if he’d be back before his family arrived. He cleared that misunderstanding up quickly. He was LEAVING, as in, he had met someone.
Excuse me?!
The survivor in me came out. I pushed the phone into his chest and told him to call his family. Brunch was off. I turned off the oven, tossed his keys out the door, and told him I never wanted to see him again. And since this was long before anyone worked from home, I never had to.
Now, at 59, I think I’m seeing things a bit more clearly.
He told me back then that the person he “met” was a dental hygienist. In the town we moved from. The town he never really left.
I didn’t let myself put the pieces together back then, or for decades after. But recently I remembered something:
That man was at the dentist all the time. From The Day I Met Him.
I mean, really, did I honestly believe he needed that many cleanings?! He never, not once, complained of a toothache. And why would anyone choose to drive hours a day, every day, for years, when he could work close to home?
Maybe THIS is the wisdom that comes with aging:
Twenty-seven years later, the fog of self-preservation (or denial?) has lifted. Back then, I never in a million years would have thought he’d cheat on me. Now I think he was cheating the whole time we were together! Right? Am I right?