I met my husband through mutual friends. Well, one friend in particular, a pathological liar–if I were to explain the trials and tribulations we went through with this guy, no one would believe me. We both thought well of him, initially, and when the cracks started appearing in his incredible web of lies, Geoff and I forged a strong bond based on, “I hate that bitch too”. We were each in go-nowhere relationships, both experiencing a burgeoning sense that we wanted more than what life was giving us. Circumstance had us spending more and more time together. And things unfolded as things unfold. I asked my boyfriend to move out and Geoff moved in.
Our wedding was the happiest day of my life. We rented a grange hall, I bought a black dress, we said fuck you to tradition and we knew we were forever.
In my memories, our first year of marriage was drenched in sunshine. I know I’m being wistful and romantic, but I don’t remember the ceaseless rain of the Pacific Northwest being anything but a delicate mist that cleansed away the bad memories of who I was in my twenties. It was a new beginning and I desperately needed one.
It sounds awful and cliche. We had so much love. We wanted to share it. So, we decided to try and start a family. It was supposed to be easy because everything else has been hard.