Over the weekend, my husband read what I had written of my memoir thus far.

From the time he asked if he could read it to the time he was done and I heard him step away from his computer, I wondered: will he like it? Will the words be powerful enough? Will he view me differently after reading what I had written?

These were all silly fears as the answers are obviously: Yes, yes, no. But a writer has fears no matter who is reading their work, no matter who is giving their opinion.

He hugged me after he read what I had written and he was shaking with anger. “It’s not that I didn’t want to read it.” he said. “It’s that I knew how angry I would be if I did.”

He pulled closer to him and said: “I don’t know how you came out so normal after what you’ve been through.”

“I chose too.” I said. “Everyone keeps telling me that I must be so angry, that I must be filled with such hatred. I can’t live that way and move on with my life, so I choose to forgive and live.”

We didn’t say much about it after that. But he had read it and still loved me and values me. That is more than enough.

I gave him my heart and he holds it like a treasured object. My heart beats for him and I could not imagine my life without him in it.

He has my heart, it is his. But more importantly, we belong to each other. We belong together. And in him I have found something I’ve searched my entire life for.

To belong.