The Non-Conformist

Picture this: March 2021. After 9 PM. He's asleep with the kids in our bed with the TV on of course. TV still on in the living room, so I tidy up. An MK watch. Hmm, this is new and expensive and he didn't say anything about a new watch.  Outside in the truck, in a Vikings bookbag I'd given him was an expensive pair of shoes. Okay, now this is really interesting. He would've told me he'd gotten these shoes. Drum beats or heart beats? In his closet, the box hidden under clothes. In the box, the packing slip with her information. (Yes, I hit her up to let her that I knew, that he was free to be with her, and really...thank you.) Basically, this was a twisted, heartbreaking, sordid version of Blue's Clues, but unlike the last time, I was prepared. It was just what I needed to finally stop fighting against what I knew had to be done. I'd prayed for signs and guidance, and for the previous year or so, I'd denied the very things I'd asked God for. That nigh

I remember hearing that after the humongous implosion in our marriage relationship in 2017. Picture this: newborn baby, first time mom, and a "workaholic" husband who was working at the wrong thing unaffiliated with clocking in and out for his employers to dictate what could and could not, and should and should not be done at their place of business. McDonald's. Also picture the new mom being afraid to stay home alone with a newborn because, duh, it was all brand new to her, and the philandering husband offers for a random employee to come over to help care for the baby. (This employee was actually his mistress from work with whom he'd made plans and started a family - she was pregnant. Somehow I wasn't allowed to be privy to these plans because, of course, they had nothing to do with me and I would "have to accept the baby if I wanted to be" with the philandering husband. Now, fast forward to late Winter 2021, and on the surface, everything seemed to be

18 years. It's been that long since I wrote out the possible names of my future children with the man who would become my husband when I turned 19 like Grandma was in that picture of her and my smooth-operating fox of a granddaddy - aged 21. My husband and I would have five children with the first being born when I was 21 or 22 and the last being born at age 30. Four boys and one girl at LEAST. We'd live in DC. Young professionals, married, in love with a beautiful big family, making a wonderful life for ourselves. A tenured college professor and whatever he would be. (I never specified his profession. I guess I only thought about what I wanted for my life, but not enough of who I wanted.)  That was 18 years ago and I'm not that dreamy teen anymore from the small town of Thomasville, GA, who at one point was poor enough that we sometimes used forks or butter knives to part our hair. Or lived in a dainty 3-bedroom house with 4 adults and like 9 other kids. Or who walked ever