I’m freaking out. My 92 year old mother is reading my book and she has more than a few things to say about what she thought she knew but didn’t actually know. And more importantly, why on earth do I want to share all of this? Most of the granddaughters shouldn’t read it. Never mind that “most of the granddaughters” are over the age of 30.
My mother is brilliant. I hope that comes out and if not, I need to work on that aspect. In the most casual way, she tossed off the line that has me snared. “I certainly hope you have a happy ending. I like happy endings.” Don’t you even think about smirking. She’s 92. She has no idea about modern connotations of those words.
I like happy endings too. By her definition, I’ve got one. My husband and I just celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. Our “real anniversary,” as we call August 17, 1987 will be our 27th. Twenty-six years ago, I told him I didn’t want a diamond until he could buy me “a serious diamond.” Not at all Politically Correct but I have the heart of a slut, apparently. Last week, I got my serious diamond. It’s a ring I couldn’t wear at 25 but at 52, it fits just fine.
Here’s the problem: I never thought I’d bring my husband into this mess of a book. Should I tell you about how we were set up by an astrologer? About how our union felt so cosmically predestined that he moved in eight days after we met? So many stories there.
But this part of the story has to end and I know the specific scene. It has everything to do with real estate and Florida and not so much with the man who was standing beside me when I had the aha moment. But he was there. And he’s the happy ending, even if he was only a beginning.
So somehow, I need to find a way to tell you about this without going off for another 350 pages.