by jordan parks / 
License this photo on Getty Images
The day I married, July 3rd, 1982 stood six years from the day my brother had died. I can only imagine what my mother’s life must have been like during the years that followed.
Instead of having a child, a son at home for three years following the August of 1978 when I left for college, my mother re-entered a house where she would live alone until she died in 1996 at the hospital in Berkeley, California where my husband is on staff.
My mother did not drive me to college. Instead she engaged a former student, one year older than me, and who was a sophomore where I would be attending.
He readily accepted, safely delivered me as he had promised and then two days later requested a date. It was quite a surprise and shock. This boy/man whom I had adored in high school, on whom I had experienced a crush, and wished to date, but had made fun of me and my skinny legs, preferring a fellow classmate who had larger breasts, was now seeking my attention.
Not knowing what to say, and feeling rather strange, I said, “No.”
My heart had been broken the summer of my senior year in high school, and not by this young man. He had been away at college.
Rather I had become enthralled with the photographer of the debutante ball wherein I would be presented.
He had shown interest after photographing me for the ball. Having reached what I knew would be the end of the relationship with my present boyfriend at the time, and who was also my escort for the debutante ball, I readily accepted, in fact looked to a budding relationship with hope.
Little did I know that this young man, newly graduated from college had been dating the wife of a married man, a wife whom many would later tell me I resembled.
(to be continued …)