Growing up, I always preferred the tragic, heart-wrenching tales to the "happily ever after" fairy tales, until that is, I found myself in the middle of the former.
My aunt couldn't understand why I was getting married and having a baby when I was supposed to be at college, preparing for greatness.
One of her friends, who happened to be a nurse at the hospital where The Boy was born, told her she thought we were just two kids who wanted a family.
As I assume most parents do, we talked about the life we wanted our son to have, the kind of parents we wanted to be and our fear of failing him somehow.
Those kinds of talks always seemed to end in a fight, not because we disagreed on how to raise our son, but because my husband refused the idea of living to see 25 and made certain to remind me of that whenever we discussed the future.
"Baby, you can't count on me being here then," he would tell me.
He said that he wasn't trying to be cruel, only practical, that he didn't want me to be disappointed when the future got here and he wasn't here to share it with me.
He was right. He died at the age of 24.
And at the same time, he was so incredibly wrong. Here I am, in our future, and despite his continued warnings, his continued objections, despite having "prepared" myself for his death, I am still bitterly disappointed that he's not here for our "happily ever after".