Danny was a cowboy from Dallas, Texas who came up to New York City and met me at a rodeo. He wanted to get married right away. Like after two weeks, he proposed. It seemed very romantic and old-fashioned. Of course, as a 21 year old coed, I strongly considered it but ultimately said “no.” I said I had to finish school but we’d stay in touch. Then he returned to to Texas, forlorn but sweet as sugar. Do you know he was dead within three months from cancer? Not that he ever mentioned being sick at all. Um. So was I supposed to marry him, risk getting pregnant and then have my new husband die within three months? To this day, I don’t know what to think about this.
We had a whirlwind romance that started at work on the election campaign trail. But only after I married Garth did he bother to tell me he had suffered his whole life with a host of chronic ailments: asthma, epilepsy, Osgood-Schlatter syndrome and diabetes. I don’t mean to be a bitch but I am feeling blindsided by his lack of genetic disclosure. I mean, would we still be married if I were hiding a bunch of diseases that can very well affect the health of our children. I’m no doctor but am I right or wrong?
Withholding and depriving of information is never good for anything but his control of your decisionmaking. These guys knew this information could have given you pause or a reason to weasel out of the marriage. So they hid it.
I have a lot of respect for people who could forgive this kind of lying-by-omission. But, true talk, I have more respect for women who recognize the core level of disrespect and jeopardy they’ve been tricked into (Yes, “tricked”) and get on down the road away from the creep. If the roles were reversed, you’d catch mucho de Hell. Trust that.