As long as I can remember, when I dreamed of being married, it wasn’t the way other girls dream. I was practical, even when I was young. I never dreamed of having a husband that was handsome, or rich, or famous, or even tall. Not that I thought I didn’t deserve any of that—it’s just that those weren’t what mattered to me. The only dream I had was that we would be best friends, who could share everything in our lives. I dreamed that he would love me with all his heart, and I would return that love. That’s it.
It wasn’t a complicated dream. It didn’t require any extraordinary act of God. I just wanted a husband who would love me. When I got married, I thought I had finally found the one. I planned to spend the rest of my life with him; but I couldn’t have been more wrong. The one thing I wanted most was the one thing he could never give me—and yet he married me, and stole all those years from my life.
I was like a thriving, growing flower that he put into a pot in a room with no windows. He never gave me the water or sunshine I needed, and I stopped blooming. I faded and withered. His neglect nearly killed me. The tiny little root that survived deep down in the dirt has taken years to revive, but I am here again. I am thriving, growing, and about to bloom. Now, what I need is a caretaker with a green thumb who will love and care for me, and be sure I get everything I need to flourish.