I don’t have a love story.
And that’s okay.
I don’t need one.
The love in my life is so overflowing from other sources, from my family and friends, that it seems unbearably selfish to wish for more.
So I won’t keep wishing for a love story.
I already have too many to choose from.
Let me tell you some love stories.
My dad once bought me an enormous basket of every single type of fruit that Lunardi’s sold because I cried postpartum that all my fruit spoiled while I was in the hospital giving birth to my rainbow baby, Duncan.
Or my 15 year old birthmother who had to make an impossible decision about putting me up for adoption.
How heart wrenching to give up a beloved child.
There’s the time my sister-in-law cried with me because I was heartbroken over a breakup.
She felt my suffering like it was her own.
And of course, there’s the time my sister and I giggled as we sat in the back of a car in a hotel parking lot, drinking beer and thinking we were being unobtrusive.
We were SO obvious!
There’s my mom who spent countless nights staying up late, baking cookies for a bake sale or putting the final touches on a costume or wiping my fevered forehead.
And my cousin used to invite me to visit her on weekends because she knew I was alone and had no one to hang with,
So you see, I’ve not devoid of love.
I’m flush with it.
I don’t have a love story because I have love stories.