That’s kind of the truth.
The whole truth is that I cried. Like, full out, tears running down my face to the point that Brodie noticed and asked me what was wrong, cried.
I told Brodie, “Nothing, Son. I’m fine. I just really want your Daddy to come home.”
And that was the truth.
Maybe the tears were from being touched, maybe the tears were from reading something so real and raw, maybe the tears were because I knew that even though I totally related with the post at that very moment, there have been times in my marriage where I let myself forget.
Forget that my love story is beautiful.
Forget that my love story is powerful.
When I read him the post, he sort of laughed and told me the only reason he’s never run through an airport for me is because we can’t afford a plane ticket for me to go anywhere. I couldn’t help but laugh with him because it’s totally the truth.
The rest of the truth is that last summer he lived in an apartment down the street because I asked him to.
And he did run after me. Every day. And he did fight for me. Every day. And he did not give up on me even though I thought I was ready to give up on him.
And I was the stupid girl in the movies who didn’t see what she had. And he was the hero who bent over backwards until she understood.
On June 1st of this year, exactly a year after he moved into that sad, quiet little apartment, a few blocks and a thousand broken hearts away, we brought Elizabeth home from the hospital. To our home, the one we share, with the mess and the noise and the laughter and the love and the dirty laundry piled to the ceiling.
My best friend sent me a text that day noting the poetic justice in the dates. She said that last year felt like a lifetime ago, someone else’s lifetime. And to her, it probably did.
But, Jeremy and I know the truth.
It wasn’t someone else’s lifetime. It was our lifetime. It was our love. It was a very, very important part of our love story. And it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t fun. It also isn’t something that we can omit from the story because, while it’s ugly and painful, it’s a part of it.
Forever and always.
He’s never run after me at an airport, but he’s run after me.
More than once.
And next time we’re at an airport, he’ll be the guy pulling the carry-on and trying to wrangle our three children so we don’t miss our flight.
Happy Thursday, Friends.
go. do. be.