I told no one about my marriage for a year. Thinking of the 50-50 chance for divorce and the disapproving face of my mother, I made a deal with my husband not to tell a soul about our official union for 12 months. I figured if after a year I was unhappy, I could get a quiet divorce and no one would be the wiser for my folly into the dark side.

After our successful first year, I invited my mother over for dinner and prepared her favorite meal of pork chops, stuffing and asparagus. After drinking four glasses of wine, I finally told her over dessert that our first wedding anniversary would be the next day. She rose from her chair, embraced my husband warmly, and officially welcomed him into the family. I don't remember much after that since I immediately fainted, face first, into my Costco cheesecake.

But recently, over the past six months, my own attitude toward marriage has changed. I have been struggling with hypochondria and depression. I felt as if I were drowning and had no idea what to do. I treated my husband with indifference and lack of respect; I was certain our marriage was over. But he did something miraculous -- he stood by me.

He researched all he could about anxiety and depression and encouraged me to seek therapy, even offering to attend with me. His support, caring and unconditional love for me have played a major role in my continuing successful treatment. When I asked why he didn't just cut his losses and leave, he responded, "Because you are my wife."

I now realize that marriage was his gift to me, that the institution I had loathed for so long quite possibly saved my life.

-- Laurel M. Hayward

The North-South divide

My husband and I first met when we were 13 years old. We got married after meeting again at our 20-year high school reunion. People love our story. It's one of those you-should-be-on-Oprah stories, and I can see the nostalgia lighting up the listeners' eyes as they sigh and say, "That is so sweet."

But then, inevitably, the question comes: "So, which one of you lovebirds is going to move?"

Stan lives in Northern California and I live near San Diego.

I take a deep breath, give them a reassuring smile, and say, "No one. Not until the kids are out of school in five years." Five and a half years, actually.

We have what we've come to call a commuter marriage, not to be confused with the better-known but ill-fated long-distance romance. We spend a week together, followed by a week apart.

When Stan and I saw each other at the reunion, we had both been divorced for three years. We had dated the necessary round of transitional guys and gals, who'd had to put up with our teary tirades and sluggish steps toward healing. We were ready to meet each other again.

In fact, Stan, not even knowing I'd divorced, asked the reunion organizers if I was going to be there. He'd been thinking of me for some reason. We had been friends who never officially dated, but who had always harbored a crush for each other. We both knew it. The way, in photography class, we always managed to be in the darkroom at the same time, brushing arms as we dipped our prints in solution; the hours of talking; and yes, that's me on his shoulders in the senior class picture -- these were just a few of the giveaways. But for some reason we never became a couple.

Stan says it's because he would have screwed it up back then.

Stan and I were the last people to leave the reunion. And at the picnic the next day, after Stan tucked my boys into the back seat of my packed Jeep and hugged me and waved goodbye, my son Michael, who had just turned 9, said, "Mom? You gotta marry that guy."

I told him there was something referred to as protocol, that first it would sort of be good for Stan to maybe call me and perhaps ask me on a date. What I didn't tell Michael is that I doubted I would ever want to get married again.

When I walked in the door 10 hours later, the phone was ringing like a blessed church bell. "Is it too early for me to call?" he asked. I said, "Considering I started waiting for this call 20 years ago? No. Definitely not too early."

After Stan made the first of many 600-mile trips, we had a long talk. We agreed that no one should move, not him, not me, and not our kids away from their other parents. That's the real reason neither one of us could move -- we didn't want to leave our kids behind.

We agreed to take it one round-trip plane ticket at a time. I wouldn't be honest if I didn't mention the negatives. Traveling can be stressful, hauling things back and forth can be perplexing. I've stood at the grocery store in front of the spices way too many times, racking my brain, trying to remember which house I kept buying cumin for, and which house I kept buying curry for, and which house, damnit, needed which?

In our first marriages we failed to stay together for the sake of our children. I guess you could say that in this marriage, Stan and I vow to stay apart for the sake of our children. We are united in a way all my old starry-eyed schoolgirl daydreams never could have conjured up.

-- Seré Prince Halverson

- - - - - - - - - - - -

We want to make you a part of this series. What is the state of your union? Did you find the one and never look back, or has finding lasting love been a marathon of trial and error? Did you have a fairy-tale wedding only to watch things crumble once the reception was over, or have you glided along in marital bliss since Day One? We want to hear your stories of joy, romance, heartbreak and pain. After all, partnership, as we all know, is a complex concoction of all of those things. (Please remember: Any writing submitted becomes the property of Salon if we publish it. We reserve the right to edit submissions, and cannot reply to every writer. Interested contributors should send their stories to marriage@salon.com.)

Recent Stories