My husband is beautiful. He was raised in England but has no accent. He played soccer and American football. He is rugged and has deep blue eyes. He bears scars from a motorcycle accident. His hair is reddish-blonde. His chest is big and powerful. He can be very tender.
My husband can do anything. He can replumb the bathroom. Rewire the house. Weld. Fix the car. He built his own computer. He drinks socially. He does not gamble. He loves the outdoors and hunts. He loves our dogs and would protect them with his life.
My husband is very smart. He can read something once and understand the implications of it. He excels at his job. People like him. He's funny.
My husband can be cruel and I often tell him he has no filter between his brain and his mouth. He can say things that most people just think. I have cringed at his bluntness. But his incredible competence at what he does makes up for his lapses.
My husband and I have remodeled kitchens, bathrooms, yards, and laundry rooms. We've traveled all over the world. We've loved and fought and I loved him almost from the moment I met him.
My husband is also terribly flawed. He was abused as a child. I knew for many years although he never told me. I listened to what he said and I knew. I thought he had learned to cope with it and I did not know enough to understand that trauma of this kind will find a way out. Even when you think you have it stuffed so deep it doesn't bother you anymore, it will come out in boundary issues, in inappropriate behavior, in sexual acting out. I know now. I didn't know then.
