When someone tells me that Dave and I are the perfect couple, I take it lightly. We’ve both been in “perfect” couples before.

Today would have been the 19th anniversary of my first marriage. It was a far different life. I had jobs that consumed me and never gave anything back beyond monetary remuneration. I had leisure time to do whatever I desired, yet I had no music, not much joy.

There was love, but I never trusted it. I was wary of his scorn and disapproval, real and imagined. He had definite opinions on everything and was a judgmental sort of person. Generally, if he decided he didn’t like someone, he wrote them off and never gave second chances. I kept too many of my own thoughts to myself for fear of looking ridiculous in his eyes.

Eventually by silencing myself, I created a wall that kept us from being able to communicate honestly. Strangely, the smooth surface of our relationship gave the impression of perfection to friends and acquaintances and I seized on that as proof it was all okay.

When things started to fall apart, he very much regretted the way he was and truly desired to change. Even now, a critical little corner of my mind thinks I should have been able to make it work, but I didn’t. By that time, I had no hope and left the relationship. He is remarried now and I wish him great happiness. We are none of us simply one thing or the other; he also has many good qualities. But ultimately, I helped create and stayed a long time in an unnourishing relationship in large part because we were supposed to be the perfect couple.