THE MAN I THOUGHT I KNEW
Richard and I met during our freshman year of college.
He was the quiet young man who always sat near the window in history class, tapping his pencil whenever he was nervous. I was the girl who borrowed that pencil one rainy afternoon and forgot to return it.
He asked for it over coffee.
That coffee became dinner. Dinner became long walks across campus. Two years later, at twenty, we stood in a tiny church with secondhand flowers, nervous smiles, and less than three hundred dollars in our bank account.
We had no idea what we were doing.
But we loved each other, and for a long time, that was enough.
We built a life the slow way. Richard worked at an insurance company, and I taught elementary school. We bought a small house, raised Michael and Claire, and spent years worrying about tuition, broken appliances, and dinner.
By the time our fifth grandchild was born, we had been married for thirty-eight years.
I thought I knew every version of Richard.
I knew how he rubbed the bridge of his nose when he was tired. I knew he hated olives but ate them when my mother cooked. I knew he cried at graduations and denied it. I knew he checked every door twice before bed.
At least, I believed I knew him.
Then he changed.
