Sometimes I wish I didn’t know today what I didn’t know when I was young. When I was young, I believed if only I had a man I loved and vice versa, I’d be happy. We’d be happy. We’d have two kids. Maybe his, from an earlier marriage. None from me. I couldn’t give birth. I was afraid it would hurt me too much and I would never forgive my child.

We’d live in a small house by the lake, or some water way. He’d have a hobby like wood-working or glass blowing and sell his creations at Open Air Markets on weekends, along with the vegetables I grew in our garden. I’d write.

The children would effortlessly grow strong and bright and have careers they loved like: musician, doctor, lawyer, travel agent.

A tourist visiting the community open market from the city, would discover my husband’s glass blowing art. He would be included in a group show in Manhattan or Chicago or San Francisco to good reviews and sales. Though, he would still need his job as an art teacher because it covered health insurance for our family.

My first novel about New York City Hippies and Bohemians in the nineteen sixties would receive mixed reviews and sell a disappointing four hundred and sixty copies. That the publisher soon folded could not be blamed on me.

We’d move to Santa Cruz, before Tech Bros discover it, and rent a small house that needed extensive repairs. We’d have a garden and water views and interesting, creative neighbors like a woman who played jazz saxophone and her wife who was the veterinarian for our three dogs, as well as Governor Brown’s.

I would be included in UHF educational TV series about women writers who weren’t famous but whose work deserved a second glance. An Independent producer would option my first novel, now considered “retro,” for five figures. We’d put the option money toward a down payment for the house our landlord was glad to be rid of because the city refused his request to bulldoze it and build four Condominiums.

We would grow older. He would sell his work on Etsy. He no longer want to drive. The Post Office was closer than open air markets. I would enjoy the garden, watching bees and hummingbirds going about their lives, and post videos of it to my YouTube channel. On rainy days I would bake sourdough bread.

Our children would suggest we sell the house now worth millions and move closer to one of them, or down size, or move to a  55+ community. But the garage was filled with blown glass art and two million dollars wouldn’t  cover a long-life time or a chronic illness should we one day face it. We’d toy with the idea of retiring abroad, or to Mexico but couldn’t decide which we preferred. He liked Italy. I liked Mexico.

Lying in bed nights hearing the whisper from his sleep Apnea machine, I’d wonder which of us would die first? How would he manage without me? But I’d know one day I’d be the one alone. Just as I am now.

Written by Carol Roper

ⒸCarol Roper Copyright 2024

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