The Notebook - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,69
and this is the story of a wedding. It is also the story of my marriage, and despite the thirty years that Jane and I have spent together, I suppose I should begin by admitting that others know far more about marriage than I. A man can learn nothing by asking my advice. It pains me to admit that I’ve been blind and stubborn and dumb as a goldfish in the course of my marriage. Yet, looking back, if I’ve done one thing right, it has been to love my wife deeply throughout our years together. While this may strike some as a given, I suppose you should know that there was a time when I was certain that my wife didn’t feel the same way about me.
Of course, all marriages go through ups and downs: Between us, my wife and I have lived through the deaths of both of my parents, one of hers, and the sickness of her father. We’ve moved four times, and though I’ve been successful in my profession, there were many sacrifices made in order to secure this position—sacrifices that in retrospect seem impossibly costly. We have three children and while neither of us would trade the experience of parenthood for the riches of Tutankhamen, the sleepless nights and frequent trips to the hospital when they were infants left both of us exhausted and often overwhelmed. It goes without saying that their teenage years were an experience I would rather not relive.
All of those events create their own stresses, and when two people live together, the stress flows both ways. This, I’ve come to believe, is both the blessing and the curse of marriage. It’s a blessing because there’s an outlet for the everyday strains of life; it’s a curse because the outlet is someone you care deeply about.
Why do I mention this? Because I want to underscore that throughout all these events, I never doubted my feelings for my wife. Sure, there were days when we avoided eye contact at the breakfast table, but still, I never doubted us. It would be dishonest to say that I haven’t wondered what would have happened had I married someone else, but in all the years we spent together, I never once regretted the fact that I had chosen her, and she, me. I thought our relationship was settled, but in the end, I realized that I was wrong. I learned that a little more than a year ago—fourteen months, to be exact—and it was that realization, more than anything, which set in motion all that was to come.
What happened then, you wonder?
Given my age, a person might suppose that it was some incident inspired by a mid-life crisis. A sudden desire to change my life, perhaps, or maybe a crime of the heart. But it was neither of those things. No, my sin was a small one in the grand scheme of things, an incident that under different circumstances might have been the subject of a humorous anecdote in later years. But it hurt her, it hurt us, and thus it is here where I must begin my story.
It was August 22, 2002, and what I did was this: I rose and ate breakfast, then spent the day at the office, as is my custom. The events of my workday played no role in what came after; to be honest, I can’t remember anything about it other than to recall that it was nothing extraordinary. I arrived home at my regular hour and was pleasantly surprised to see Jane preparing my favorite meal in the kitchen.
When she turned to greet me, I thought I saw her eyes flicker downward, looking to see if I was holding something other than my briefcase, but I was empty-handed. I kissed her and an hour later, we ate dinner together, discussing our children and my work, the type of conversation that had become routine for us. Afterward, as Jane began collecting the dishes from the table, I retrieved a few legal documents from my briefcase that I wished to review. Carrying them to my office, I was perusing the first page when I noticed Jane standing in the doorway. She was drying her hands on a dish towel, and her eyes registered a disappointment that I had come to recognize, if not fully understand.
“Is there anything you want to say?” she finally asked.
I hesitated, aware there was more to her question than its innocence implied. I thought perhaps that she