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One great love. That’s what every heart craves. I was lucky enough to find mine when I was 19. But I wouldn’t describe myself as lucky now.
My husband looks at me like I’m the light of his life. We live in a penthouse apartment that overlooks Central Park. My closet it filled with designer clothes and more pairs of shoes than I can count. I have everything I could possibly want at my fingertips.
And I’ve accomplished my dream of writing a novel. I wrote my love story. Every kiss, every touch, every memory compiled in a manuscript. The pages make my heart ache, my tears flow freely, and my cheeks hurt from laughter. My whole life is written on these pages.
I have the perfect husband. The perfect family. The perfect life.
But I don’t remember any of it.