Being a young, remarried widow complicates things.
I’m almost 34 now. I’ve been married to my second husband for nearly six years, and was married to my first for only about three.
Each marriage produced two children, and all four are two years or less apart in age.
I never in a million years expected to be in the situation I’m in now, trying to tread the choppy waters of so many in-laws, different last names, and two men that I’ve given my love, heart, and life to, both of whom need to be valued and loved wholly and separately.
I tread the waters between cherishing memories of my first marriage without disrespecting my second. I navigate the emotions of each anniversary carefully…marriage, death, marriage.
So many people look to me, each from different perspectives and stages of grief, and it’s extremely difficult to appreciate where they all are coming from at any given time. Why do they do what they do? Why didn’t they celebrate that birthday, but offered presents for this one? Do they know where I’M coming from, why I do what I do? Does it matter?
I don’t always explain why I have a second husband and not a “one and only” but I almost always feel like I should. I don’t know why…there’s nothing wrong with divorce, leaving one person to find someone that does make you happy. But I didn’t choose to leave my first husband, even though I assume that’s what people think. My kids do have different last names, but in almost six years, I’ve only uttered the phrase “half sibling” maybe twice. They’re siblings. Siblings that are different in so many ways and alike in so many others.
I’m the common denominator, I guess, between them, and the web of family members that has grown and tangled and crossed and come together. Marriage does that, and when it happens twice, unexpectedly?
It’s complicated.
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