Narratively

When I met my one true love, I was so enamored with him I overlooked the fact that he had left a jilted fiancée behind. I was in way too deep before I realized that I was headed for my own nightmare.

After years of avoiding love, I found a match that seemed almost too perfect. We were practically walking down the aisle before I realized it really was too good to be true.

Over 40, three miscarriages in, and assigned to the five-percent-chance-of-conception club, I kept on plugging the only way I knew how.

My mom and dad were fun-loving lounge singers with endless energy and outrageous perms to match. Then they became parents, Nashville became “cool,” and we all started to wonder what might have been.

She was the overachieving, hyper-talented diva of our high school. I was the jealous tone-deaf wannabe. Obviously, I hated her—until our paths crossed at the Met Opera twenty years later.

When my first boyfriend literally couldn’t penetrate me, I assumed we were just doing it wrong. But I was actually living with a rare and confounding condition that made sex impossible.