After relaying the drama that was unfolding in yet another failed situationship my best friend once asked me, “is this the story you want to tell your kids about how you ended up with their father?”
As a storyteller, this question stuck to me and since then I have been fixated on crafting the perfect narrative. There was nothing I wanted more than to tell a good story to my children on how their father and I met, fell in love, and got married. I always imagined it to be just like the movies, accompanied by the perfect soundtrack with a wonderful Taylor Swift song to boot
I would meet him while onboard a train bound for Vienna or bump into him while exiting a club in Prague and we would end up in a transcontinental love affair that would span years. In my head, he was always the gorgeous bad boy who changes for the better because I made him want to be a better man. Or, he would be someone I had met when I was 16 and to him I would be the who got away who he didn’t let go of the second time around. We would be best friends until he realizes that he was in love with me the entire time.
In the cinematic version, the guy would fly all the way from Manila to Madrid to get the girl and to tell her she was the one. In real life, when the boy flew to Madrid it was to tell me he had met the one but the one was someone else. Instead…
