Today would have been my fourteenth wedding anniversary. The weather forcast predicted a hundred percent chance of rain that day and rain it did, bringing us good luck that would be short lived. The past few years have buffered the disappointment of a failed marriage somewhat, at least to the point where I can look back with detached sadness at the unravelling of my fairy tale, born of the silly, romantic notions of youth and carried well past its prime into my late thirties. I will not grow old with the man I vowed to have and to hold, before a God I didn’t believe in, and it’s better that way. We were the wrong people at the right time, succumbing to societal pressures and biological ticking clocks that drowned out the niggling little voices telling us to stop. I don’t regret the marriage so much as I regret its bitter ending, the one that claimed a kind and loving man and a once foolish romantic in its aftermath. I’d like to think that something good came out of it, a beautiful boy and life experiences that would never have happened if we hadn’t met. I hope that we can eventually be good friends and inspire our son to develop healthy relationships of his own. Perhaps with some healing, we can even dust off the disenchantment that comes with the territory and in the process, uncover our former selves. Better, more insightful versions, that is, who will bring out the best in a new partner and vice versa. I don’t believe in forever but I do believe in love. Do you, dear reader?