We stand in the kitchen and speak words like hunger. My husband makes rice and tofu. I lift the simmering lid to taste. An argument bubbles to the surface that is and is not about how much garlic the recipe requires. It is the same argument we have been having for the past 10 years. It is an argument about expectations.

When David and I were first dating, we once walked home from town in a rainstorm. We took off our shoes and splashed in muddy puddles. We held hands impervious to the damp and the cold. We plotted our future. David was going to change the world. I was going to support him.

I was going to do such amazing things./I was going to simply stand quiet beside you? Both of us are incredulous.

Recently, we bought a house. A home is something we always dreamed we would make together. I am determined to be the one to paint the cabinets in our kitchen. I remind David about how I had to spend an entire day re-sanding the drips he left when he primed. I tell him that I do not trust that he can make the kitchen look the way I envisioned. I tell David that I do not want him to help me paint. He simply shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, and moves to stand on the periphery. On the last cabinet, I make a huge mistake. I slap my paintbrush down. I am frustrated. David makes a joke about my perfectionism. He makes a joke that is really a gentle observation about us both. This is the shift. We are aware of what is happening. We hug each other in the kitchen. We lean our bodies against the wrecked cabinet. I am struck by the courage it takes for two people to love each other.

When my husband and I jumped those muddy puddles, we were different people. We were just kids. David was confident. I was diminutive. David had dreams. I was content to follow. We have evolved outside of those roles in the 14 years that we have been together. Some of our expectations, of what our life together would be, have not caught up to the adult versions of what we are. I believe the adult version of us has the potential to be better.

Let’s go back to the idea of rain. Gently. Gently. Everything is always falling.

We pull on raincoats and boots. We ignore the umbrellas. We dive in and out of raindrops as we race towards the car. My family drives across town in a storm to find the perfect pencil. David wants to draw pictures. He is at the wheel. I sit comfortably next to him. I am content in the passenger seat with a novel in my hand. There is laughter, and the sweet buzz my children naturally make. My son wants to know what colors combine to make his favorite. He wants to hold orange like a tiny fire in his hand. I tell him red and yellow. I make a mental note to buy him a book about Prometheus. My daughter stares out of her window, grateful. I lean my body towards her to listen. She whispers and I can only nod my head overwhelmed.  She says, Thank you, rain, for falling.

Marriage is hard. That is such a simple statement. A true statement. Sometimes marriage is too hard and a couple realizes that they need to walk away. I think that is incredibly brave. I can not imagine how hard it would be. I wonder how many of you have ever wondered if that couple might be you? Maybe you thought it in your head when disappointment built, or aloud in arguments where you strike out to hurt. If so, you are not alone.

I met my husband while in college. We started talking at a dorm room party. We have not stopped talking since that night. We moved in together within six months. We were young and relatively poor college kids, rolling up quarters to buy gas and the cigarettes we smoked back then. We laid on the rooftop. I use to ask him, What if?

What if a genie said he would grant you every wish you had, but it would mean that I had to lose a leg or be horribly disfigured? Would you do it?

Inside a silly game, we both knew what I was asking. There were things that made me afraid. What if you hurt me? What if you lie? What if you break my heart? What if I break yours? I wanted protection against the inevitable.

This year, my husband and I will be married for 10 years, together for over 14. In this space of time, I have broken my husband’s heart in ways both small and large.

Some would say that I am not an easy woman to love. I have thrown around the word divorce as a weapon. I have let my anxiety get in the way of my logic. I have pushed away my husband’s need for the simple intimacy of having me, his partner, look him square in the eyes. I have spent hours on the internet engaging with others when I should have been engaging with my husband. I have even wondered, in the very darkest of moments, if Dave was truly the one. If you knew my husband, what we have together, you would know that this is the most egregious fault. I am not proud.

14 years together. We are not poor. The roof is over our heads. The ground is under our feet. We construct and deconstruct our daily boundaries. We ask questions. We no longer play, outright, the game of, What if? Instead, we live it.

What can we do to make sure our children grow up healthy? If we buy the new house will it be something to make us happy, or a burden we can not afford? What are all the ways we can ask forgiveness for how we hurt each other? If we evolve separately, let us promise to remember that we love under the exact same stars?

I think that what and If might be what constitute a marriage. My marriage has been a series of what and if. It has also been about, Why? I used to constantly ask why does my husband stay with such a difficult woman? Why does he continue to love me so faithfully when I have made so many mistakes? Knowing Dave, he will answer for himself. He will come here and he will say sweet things because he is good and kind and whole in ways that I admire. I am lucky that way.

I do not know if we can ever truly explain, why. Sometimes we just are.

When my husband and I first met, I was unsure and insecure. For a long time, I thought that David saved me from myself, my loneliness, my pain. I have learned that another person can not fix the cracks, the fissures of self. I can take credit for that all on my own, even if I am still a work in progress.

There was a time when I could not see past all that David did for me, to realize that I do for him too. I note with pleasure the absence of space when my hand reaches out to find his. I am a really good listener. I fill our house with goofy laughter. I burn toast with grace. I mother with love and good intent, always, his two children. I am a devoted wife.

I am also a reflective enough wife to know that i have been selfish. Finding myself should not be about dismissing the person that I love. This is what I hope to be forgiven for.

My husband and I are beautifully bound. We fail in a million different ways on a daily basis. But add us up to sum, and we make it work in all the ways that count.

David, I love you. Then. Now. Always.