So," my sister, Fiona, said as we sat in the kitchen over coffee. "What are you getting for your anniversary this year?"
I rolled my eyes. “Same thing I get every year: Disappointed.”
We laughed, but I wasn’t trying to be funny. It was a chronic condition. Anniversaries, birthdays, Mother’s Day, Christmas—all the big events left me feeling down. My husband, Tony, would show up with a dollar-store card when I’d hoped for a night out. Or chocolate when I’d hinted for earrings. And why didn’t he ever think of getting a sitter, making hotel reservations, and whisking me off for a day or two? I was always hoping for that “perfect” gift, but never getting it.
“He’s not a mind reader,” Fiona finally said in Tony’s defense. “You have to tell him what you want.”
“After eighteen years of dating and marriage, you’d think he’d know me,” I complained. She looked at me over her cup, eyebrows raised: “Or that you’d…
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