It’ll never not be odd I think

He’s started saying things. Opening the door a bit. I was perusing the no-junk-added condiments in Fresh Thyme, and somehow his age comes up, followed by the fact that he’s turning 55 this weekend, and he’s been thinking about death lately. Nobody would look at him and guess he’s 55, and I said so, but his dad died at 57. It doesn’t seem to matter that his dad was an alcoholic smoker who died of cancer directly attributable to his lifestyle. That at 57, the man looked a very sickly 80. I noticed today his screensaver on his phone has been changed to a picture of his father, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing just now. Tonight he’s replaying a conversation with his brother and the subject of regret comes up and he says the kicker is that he can’t really wish he could go back and change anything because if he did, he wouldn’t be here, married to me, and we wouldn’t have our girls. Not sure how long I was slackjawed there. I don’t know this man. Everything I feel plays across my face like words on a page, and at this point, it seems like he can read my mind. But his face never says a word and for 26 years, his mouth rarely has either. He’s giving me what I always wanted, and I’m afraid because I don’t know this man or what he needs or hopes or wants. I don’t want to blunder. His closed door kept space between us, but space is safe. Or gives the illusion of it anyway. I wonder if he saw the exclamation marks in my eyes. The surprised shock. I hope at least he could see that it mattered. If that would mean anything. I suppose if we could live together this long and still manage to get better, I probably don’t need to fret too much. If he didn’t know I was a soft place to land, I wouldn’t be hearing these things. Still weird. 🙃😂☺