When it finally set in that I would become another marital statistic, albeit outlier – we were educated, from intact families, and financially comfortable, any one by itself putting us, demographically, ‘above’ divorce – one thing became very important. I would do whatever necessary to make my children feel at home in my new house as they would at her’s.
Sometimes it requires a thing so completely providential as an Internet hack to remind us of the importance of a promise. Yet amid the nuclear fallout from the Ashley Madison breach continuing to rain down, voices will crescendo attempting to distract us from that realty.
This admission may come as a surprise for some – I don’t have a good relationship with the ex. One might think it would be better after a decade and our interwoven lives would be easing peacefully down their separate paths – this is not the case.
I chose it for the right reasons. It was close enough to my children but far enough from their mother. I would never mow a lawn or lay pine straw again. The rich onyx of the granite and doors gave off a masculine vibe sorely lacking in the others. But most important of all perhaps, it was new – symbolic of the life I was to begin.
It was January ’89 and I had just completed a tumultuous week of fraternity hell sealed by oath to never reveal what happened. After twelve final hours, aptly named Hell Night, of what I sometimes thought would be my death, the chaos ended in a drunken salutation that my blindfolded, beer soaked, humiliated pledge brothers and I were no longer toilet scum but members fraternally bonded in brotherhood.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13 4-7