For twelve years, I believed we were a family.
My name is Sarah. I’m forty-three years old, and I met Daniel when I was thirty-one at a friend’s birthday party.
He was the kind of man who made everything seem easy. He always spoke calmly, remembered exactly how I liked my coffee, and never forgot to call if he was going to be late.
Two years later, we moved in together.
Four years later, we bought a house in a quiet suburb. Daniel had a poor credit history, so the
bank approved the mortgage in my name only. I paid most of the down payment, but I never used that fact against him.
“It’s our house,” I always said.
We opened a joint bank account, paid the bills together, renovated the kitchen, and adopted a small dog from a shelter.
All our friends and relatives considered us husband and wife.
Daniel often jokingly introduced me as his wife.
There was only one thing missing.
A ring.
At first, it didn’t bother me. I thought we still had plenty of time.
