Ah, love—the beautiful fairy tale we all yearn for, the fairy tale that sometimes feels like a nightmare signed, sealed, and delivered just for us. Stop me if you’ve heard this one: Girl meets boy, boy saves girl from high school bullying, girl and boy fall in love, and then—plot twist! Boy vanishes for 17 years. Romantic comedy, this is not.
It’s the 50th wedding anniversary for Tina and Patrick, and the applause is probably not loud enough to drown out the sound of gobsmacked disbelief from the neighbors. The whispered story of how they separated for almost two decades only to be reunited is a tale riddled with enough ups and downs to make a rollercoaster seem like a lazy river.
As I, Tina, stand here at 68, clinking glasses with family and friends, I reflect on a life that could only be described as, well, ever so slightly insane.
Once upon a time, a lost teenage girl stumbled awkwardly around her new high school until a knight in not-so-shining armor named Patrick came along. He shooed away the wicked bullies and didn’t just pick up my books—he also picked up my heart. By 18, we naïvely sprinted down the aisle in hopes of forever—a forever that no one warned us included detours and impromptu disappearances.
Young, braving the storm, and blissfully married soon enough, we danced through life’s milestones: a hand-sewn wedding dress, the pressure of young parenthood, and Patrick’s bold decision to enlist in the army. Our vows were like an unspoken spell enveloping us both—until the day his departure tore my fairy tale at the seams.
Clock-watching became a full-time affair as I single-parented our daughter, waiting for him to return from the army. At 22, he came home! Pardon my dramatic pause. I thought you might like a little suspense, and well, life offered much of it. He went on what was supposed to be a short mountain trip with army pals—what could possibly go wrong? Apparently, everything.
Patrick, our illustrious adventurer, vanished from the face of the earth, leaving a bereft wife and an avalanche of unanswered questions. Rumors of colossal snow slides filled the air, but still, no one truly knew where he had gone.
Fast forward 15 years, and I’d started finding solace in Tom’s arms—a patient companion who never sought to erase my history or Patrick’s echoing presence. Tom was the calm in my chaotic storm, a lovely, quiet contrast to my previous rollercoaster ride.
And then, a siren. The icy splash of reality as I watched Patrick, of all people, emerge from a police car. He arrived like an ancient ghost, or rather, a spouse dragged out of an abduction sitcom. He staggered forward, tears in his eyes, bringing his absurd tale of amnesia and mistaken identity to life. Cue the dramatic reunion scenes, right?
By now, you’d think my heart had enough traumatic plot twists to fill ten seasons of a TV soap opera, but oh no, there was room for more. Faced with the dilemma of returning to Patrick or staying with Tom, I was certain life had set its sights on becoming a relentless melodrama—a prime-time TV special no one channel-surfed away from.
Two years post-reunion, another curveball landed in the shape of a baby boy, sweet Danny. The world felt alive again with his laughter echoing through our lives. A brand new little being, binding our fragmented past into something hopeful, something whole.
Now, standing beside Patrick—his hand strong as ever around mine—I’m filled with a mix of dark humor and awe. True love made it through this convoluted sagas, laughing in the face of heartbreak, as if worlds were conspiring solely to keep us grounded. My life story is the stuff nightmares and daydreams are made of, yet here we are, unscathed, somewhat.
What is love if not the intriguing will to hold on, regardless of rocky roads and misplaced spouses? Yeah, that’s what Patrick and I discovered—our love may be laughable, but it stubbornly persists through a whirlwind that should’ve swallowed us whole.
