A Storyby Skip Horack
My husband screws around. Not much and not often, but I know that Andy tries whenever he gets the chance. I know it, and he knows that I know it. I press him, and he says that if I want to split up he’ll understand. That’s him trying to pin it all on me. Trying to make it so he can tell our two boys that Momma was the one who left, that he hoped to make things work. He says to me that he loves me and that I’m still his best friend—that we’ll always be best friends—but that maybe we just started out too young, had too much play left in us when we tied the knot. I’ve got a clock in my head that reads four years and four months. That’s how long until our youngest turns eighteen and I can call a lawyer. Yessir. Four years, four months.