It made sense. She was prone to annual episodes of mania, and he had advanced emphysema. Dad could barely walk across the room toting an oxygen tank. He was no match for her tirades. They did better when everyone could quietly hang up the phone, and she could not show up at three in the morning to move furniture.

 

But the difference is profound. He never made that declaration of finality. He never said "I take it back. We are not husband and wife."

 

The result for me, twenty years later, is that I am not a child of divorce. My world did not implode. Not living under the same roof was a detail I could handle. His promise and hers are still as untarnished as the ring I have worn next to my own since my mother died.

 

"Those are her initials."

 

Mom first saw Dad from my front yard, when they were seniors in high school. It is the view I see now over the top of my computer. They could not have predicted the stormy and shining path that lay ahead.

 

But I know they are holding hands as they smile down on my bright storms.