It was two years before I was born. It was one year before my husband was born. His parents had not met yet. When they would meet, in 1987, they would fall in love quickly. Not instantly, but quickly and deeply. The story of his beginning, and of his childhood, was happy.

I waited. Two years were left to pass before I could make any decision.

My husband's mother was young. She seemed kind, but I could not get much of a sense of her personality, no matter how much I watched her. She was a private person. Reserved. Even from herself. Or could I say even that much about her definitively?

My husband's father was much older, and likewise of no predictive use. I could see why my husband's mother would fall in love with him.

But I could never fall in love with either. I could not see how I would love my husband. I decided not to marry him. In the end, I was born in 1992.