I’m writing this story for reasons only important to myself. Tomorrow I will be forty years old. My story, however, begins nine years ago when I was thirty one..
My name is Jessica. I’ve been happily married for nine years to a wonderful caring man I met in college. We have two lovely children, a boy six and a daughter eight. My 31st birthday was yesterday and, as usual, my husband treated me to a night of dinner and dancing. He so enjoys doing for me that my pleasures are equaled only by the delight he derives from making me happy.
We want for nothing really, nothing material that is. That’s not to say we’re filthy rich, we don’t have yachts and jets, but we live extremely comfortable in a clean, safe upscale neighborhood.
When I was a child my mother religiously made an entry in her daily diary. She always told me her personal history was important to her. She found real satisfaction in reading and recalling her past, especially her spirited youth, lovers won and lost and the blessings brought by the love of having children.
I guess I’m my mother’s daughter because I’ve been keeping a diary since I was ten years old. This is really where my story begins, with my diary.
Occasionally I enter thoughts that some people probably would think are best left unsaid. My husband knew I valued my privacy and, as far as I knew, had never violated that trust by reading my innermost thoughts.
To this day I don’t know if I left the diary out in the open consciously are I simply forgot to put it away. Maybe, I don’t know…maybe in my subconscious I wanted him to read it.
Anyway, his natural curiosity bettered him. He only read my most recent entry but it was enough to hurt him deeply. It took him several weeks before he admitted it too me but it disturbed him so much he had to talk about it.
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