Mother never told me why she didn’t like my boyfriend. Why she’d say one thing to his face, and another to mine. And I never truly understood why I cared what she thought or said or did. Why it mattered that someone who didn’t know how to show love to her own husband, at least from what I could tell, told me I may want to think twice. Why should I care? Why not?
Later, after we’d been together for twenty years and I stayed fifteen longer than I should have, I knew why. But she died before I got an explanation for what he did, or didn’t do, that set my mother’s brain into overdrive, why she felt the need to warn me. And I’ll never stop asking myself why I didn’t listen.
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