Member-only story
Firearms and a Parting of Ways
Leaving is not on my short list, ever. I am the real-life counterbalance to the commitment-phobic people that you read about. Though my first marriage clearly didn’t make either of us joyful outside of the bed (which, at age 20, is indeed very important!), I didn’t imagine ending it until D said “Oh, if that guy who’s been sending you notes through the office mail wants to marry you — have children with you, travel with you, things that don’t interest me — then go ahead, go.”
Though I was surprised, I couldn’t help thinking it was a very kind suggestion. Taking only my clothes and my VW (D had his own), leaving behind the furnishings and saltwater aquarium and such, I drove north to R’s apartment. R, romantic to the core, seized a permanent marker and inscribed the date of that night onto his double bed.
Years later, when my second marriage, the one with R, became a daily disaster in Vermont, I took the step that many a woman before me assumed might work: I invited R to start another baby with me. He did love babies! (Just not when they needed something during his writing time. Or nap time. Or reading time. Or re-loading and target time.)
The fact that R’s firearm accident had expelled a .45 slug within inches of our first child did not linger as a concern for me. Nor does it today — it truly was an accident, and I know he learned from it…
