She remembers every statistic from every show, book, movie, or random conversation you’ve ever had with her. She spoke in sentences at thirteen months old. My daughter (now four) reads on a third grade level. Our young daughter and son have a 50% chance of having it as well.Īnd then there’s my children. Another fun fact? This condition is genetic. We now live in a constant state of limbo: trying to ride his current heart out long enough (but not too long) before he gets a transplant, which is only promised to last him 15-20 years. His heart had stopped, and as it turns out, it is broken beyond repair. In the summer of 2016 I found him unresponsive on our bedroom floor. He’s a former athlete in his early thirties, and on any given day if you saw a photo of him you’d have no idea he has a failing heart. He doesn’t always have a lot to say (which drives me to drink), but I suppose it works well for us since I’ve been given the gift of gab. A provider, a sacrificial and serving man. He’s traditionally handsome and hardworking. But here’s what was really going on behind our picket fence. That’s what they saw: a life tied up in a nice little bow. I had a husband with a good job, a pretty home, plentiful vacations. I indulged in nights out with my girlfriends. I showed up to play dates and performed accordingly. I was a wife, mother, sister, and friend to the outside world. You see, a picture is only worth the story behind it, and no one knew mine. One who had spent the last few years trying to save that very same “perfect” family. It would be impossible to predict that behind closed doors I was crumbling a woman on the verge of a mental break. No one could’ve known I was reading those comments with a pit in my throat, probably from the comfort of my bed, the one I refused to leave even for meals.

Picture perfect family