I've been with my husband for the better part of 20 years. We dated for ten of those

and have been married for eight. Two children accompanying us along the way. I still

remember when we first met on a field trip, drawing high school to a zoo which sat outside

of our city. He walked around with me for the entire trip as we watched Silly Monkeys

swing from branch to branch and we laughed at the elephant egg in a five minute pee right

in front of us. I recall how beautiful the cotton candy skies of pink and blue swirled

above our heads on the bus ride home. It was perfect. Much like the past eighteen years

had been. My husband had never gave me any reasons to be suspicious of him, whether that

would be cheating or something more sinister. No, as I said, the life we had built together

was for the most part. Perfect. Of course, it wasn't without the usual relationship problems

like arguing and the occasional disagreements, but we always made it through. Outside

of bickering about who has to take the trash out or why the electric bill got paid a

late, we'd never had any major test of our relationship. At least, not until recently

that is. It was just another average day, a warm spring Wednesday, when I noticed the

first cracks in my reality. I almost wish I hadn't pulled up the old family pictures

to reminisce to take a stroll down memory lane. Even if my life, my children and my relationship

were a lie, I still enjoyed every second of it. I was sitting at the kitchen table, golden

rays of sunlight pouring in from the garden window as they covered us in a blanket of

warmth. I sifted to the pictures we'd taken from the polo camera, which still sat somewhere

tucked away in the house. My youngest daughter, Vera, sat next to me as you rummaged to the

cardboard box labelled Memories, passing me the stacks of pictures we'd accumulated

over the years. Sheesh, mom, used to be so skinny. Kids never failed to give you their

...