Flashback
"I'll never get married," he murmurs as we lay together in the back of my SUV. We've just made love, and we are basking in the afterglow of it.
"How come?" I ask, genuinely curious, although I think I know the answer.
"I don't believe in it. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a piece of paper...it doesn't change how you feel about the person."
"Well, no," I concede. "But marriage is how the society we live in recognizes couples and families. There are financial and legal benefits to marriage that you just don't get if you're living together. And if you have kids, I think it's usually better to have two parents. That's not to say that divorce is wrong...it's more important to raise a child with one good parent alone than two parents who hate each other and fight all the time, but still..."
He's quiet, staring up at the ceiling of the SUV. I know he's thinking about his own childhood, how fucked up it was, and I know that he must have so many regrets about how he was raised. His life could have been so different. My heart aches for him.
"I've just seen how badly it can turn out," he finally says. "Look at my brother...my parents...Patrick and his first wife. All of them thought they'd be together forever, and they weren't. It's just bullshit."
I long to tell him then that I would've married him, that I've dreamt of marrying him since I was nineteen years old. I'd wanted to be his wife. I'd wanted to be the one he came home to every single night. I'd wanted to take care of him, and him to take care of me. I'd wanted to make a home with him. I'd wanted to grow old with him. I'd wanted a family with him. The only man whose children I honestly ever felt like I wanted to have was D's. I don't feel that way about R. Yes, I do want children, and I suppose eventually one day I will have them. But I don't have, and never have had, the burning desire to have R.'s babies, specifically. Not the way that I've always wanted to be the mother of David's children. When I look into his face, I can almost imagine having a child with him. I know he'd be a loving father.
It pains me to hear that he doesn't believe in something I wanted so much with him. But that's the way he feels, and I respect it. So I bite my lip and sigh, cuddling up in the crook of his arm more snugly, wishing there was some way I could confess all of these feelings without completely freaking him out.
Then, of course, reality smacks me in the face. What kind of life partner could I expect him to be if he still has a drug problem? What kind of a father could I expect him to be? He can barely keep it together long enough to take care of himself. It's so unfair. Why are there so many problems? Why can't I have what I really want?
Life is cruel, isn't it?
"How come?" I ask, genuinely curious, although I think I know the answer.
"I don't believe in it. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a piece of paper...it doesn't change how you feel about the person."
"Well, no," I concede. "But marriage is how the society we live in recognizes couples and families. There are financial and legal benefits to marriage that you just don't get if you're living together. And if you have kids, I think it's usually better to have two parents. That's not to say that divorce is wrong...it's more important to raise a child with one good parent alone than two parents who hate each other and fight all the time, but still..."
He's quiet, staring up at the ceiling of the SUV. I know he's thinking about his own childhood, how fucked up it was, and I know that he must have so many regrets about how he was raised. His life could have been so different. My heart aches for him.
"I've just seen how badly it can turn out," he finally says. "Look at my brother...my parents...Patrick and his first wife. All of them thought they'd be together forever, and they weren't. It's just bullshit."
I long to tell him then that I would've married him, that I've dreamt of marrying him since I was nineteen years old. I'd wanted to be his wife. I'd wanted to be the one he came home to every single night. I'd wanted to take care of him, and him to take care of me. I'd wanted to make a home with him. I'd wanted to grow old with him. I'd wanted a family with him. The only man whose children I honestly ever felt like I wanted to have was D's. I don't feel that way about R. Yes, I do want children, and I suppose eventually one day I will have them. But I don't have, and never have had, the burning desire to have R.'s babies, specifically. Not the way that I've always wanted to be the mother of David's children. When I look into his face, I can almost imagine having a child with him. I know he'd be a loving father.
It pains me to hear that he doesn't believe in something I wanted so much with him. But that's the way he feels, and I respect it. So I bite my lip and sigh, cuddling up in the crook of his arm more snugly, wishing there was some way I could confess all of these feelings without completely freaking him out.
Then, of course, reality smacks me in the face. What kind of life partner could I expect him to be if he still has a drug problem? What kind of a father could I expect him to be? He can barely keep it together long enough to take care of himself. It's so unfair. Why are there so many problems? Why can't I have what I really want?
Life is cruel, isn't it?
posted by Anonymous at 11/22/2006 01:33:00 PM
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