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And then, of course, there was my poor Millie. You know, there was a time in my life that I believed I was a good husband just because I made plenty of money, blessed her with children and provided for her a home filled with anything a woman with a lifetime subscription to Good Housekeeping could ever wish for. But I learned far to late in life that a new washer and dryer are not the things a woman’s dreams are made of and any wife who is worth a damn – and believe me, my Millie was – doesn’t want her husbands checkbook, she wants his attention. I learned this lesson in 1987. But by then, I guess it was just too late. I was 54 that year: owner of the insurance firm my father in law had handed down, grandfather of two with a third on the way and – what I what I was most proud of at the time – a 2 handicap in golf and club champion four years running. When Millie told me about the lump that April, I dismissed it, told her she was just ‘going through the change.’ But as was usually the. Something inside of me“yelled” “go home”.The pull to go back home was undeniable and the feeling was horrible, so I whipped my car around and headed for home. When I got to the door I slip the key into the lock as quietly as I could so as not to wake my wife. It must have been very quite because she did not hear me enter the house.As I walked into the house I heard moans coming from my bedroom. It had only been about forty-five minutes since I’d left the house. That is the time it took to get half way to work and back. I slowly and quietly stepped to the bedroom. The sex light my wife and I use was on so the room had a green tint and I wondered why it was on.The bedroom door was partially opened and I was able to see through the door jam on the side where the hinges were. Lucky for me the rest of the house was dark so they couldn’t see me in the shadows. And there was my innocent wife who had never been touched by another man and a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, on my.
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