My husband had a life before me.
We’re sitting in the den of El’s childhood home in Atlanta. I’ve been partly studying for my licensing exam and mostly checking facebook and blogs. There’s a fire going in the fireplace, and my mother-in-law is baking tres leches in the kitchen upstairs.
El and his older brother are going through piles of stuff from their pasts: photos, school projects, magazines, letters from friends and flames and university admissions offices. I feel charmed by these remnants of El’s 29 years of life before me, by the consistency of him.
