Not what my mother told me

It’s a bright stained glass tulip with wind chimes below and the note says, “Think of me when you hear this.” He’s left it at my friend’s place, knowing I’ll be there Christmas day. I burst into tears before I even open the package.

Weedy says, “ Don’t cry. It’s okay. He just likes to give you something. He probably always will.”

“Well, I wish he’d stop.” I’m scrounging for a Kleenex. It isn’t like I don’t think of him. It isn’t like I’ve forgotten twenty years of my life.

“He’s just a good guy. It makes him happy to give you a present.”

“Yeah. A good guy I divorced.” More snotty blubbering into the Kleenex. The ghosts of marriage past are crowding into the room, sucking up all the air.

“Well. He’s okay. He’s happy. You had to divorce him so you could like him again.”

It’s true. I stop crying. Weedy has an uncanny way of hitting the most peculiar nails directly on the head.

But for the life of me, I can’t remember the story of my future being told quite like that when I was young:
Fall in love. Get married…
Divorce so you can like the guy again? I’m sure it ended another way.

And I never expected, when I switched back to the use of my maiden name, and did the insurance paperwork, that under “beneficiary,” I’d write his name and in the “relationship to you” space, “friend and ex-husband.”

I called and left a message on his voice mail.

“Hi. It’s me. I’ve changed back to my maiden name. And I left my insurance and pension to you. So, if I have the consideration to croak before I retire and you’ll get a year of my salary. If not, it’ll just be my pension. Have a nice day.”

It isn’t a Hollywood ending. But it's a love story, nonetheless.