This page was as empty in the original manuscript of Mary Burton-Gulliver’s, as it is here. She was intending to tell about those years in detail, later on, but never got round to it. (See Chapter Fifteen.)
So, maybe it’s a good opportunity to tell a bit about myself, my own story, and why Mary Burton is so inspirational for me.
You see, I am a late bloomer, which means that it takes me longer to grasp things. Longer than other people, I think (though it took me some time to grasp this.) I got my PhD later than my colleagues, I was the last of my class to get married, and therefore I will probably have no children (which I don’t particularly mourn.)
* * *
When I first met the man I later married, we were so infatuated with each other. I remember how, more than once, we would go out to see a movie, and waiting on line to buy tickets, we would suddenly exchange glances, and go back home to make love.
Of course, now I know that it wasn’t Love we were making, but only expressing hormonal needs that happened to coincide. But still, I dived into the joys of lovemaking with all my being, happily thinking this will last forever.
Three years on, I found myself wandering in the mountains, braving the elements, our friends’ and families’ gossip and my sheer fear of being in the wilderness, a woman alone. I was trying to sort out the last row we had before I packed up and left. It wasn’t the first row, and it wasn’t the first time we split for a while. It just got uglier each time. In the past I went to stay with my parents or my friends, and talking with them always brought me to square one. The general message was that at my age I will not find a better husband, or any husband at all… After a much such advice and a few attempts to follow up on them, I had an inkling that I should look for a solution elsewhere, or else the worst might still be ahead of me.