Member-only story
My Husband Never Read My Writing
Until someone said this
“I’m giving up,” I say.
“Don’t give up,” says my friend. “Let my dad read your work but he takes his profession seriously and he won’t mince words. If he doesn’t think it’s good he’s going to tell you.”
We are best friends. No, we are more like sisters.
I’ve grown up in her home but don’t realize her father is a political speechwriter and journalist. Our middle school years beg questions about the next outfit, not parental occupations. I believe her dad works for the government which essentially he does.
My husband and I drive to her parent's house.
A signature of our twenties where every moment seems to unite us. Or so I think. I will soon find out physical proximity has little to do with emotional intimacy.
I wait while her mom and dad read my words.
“How did we not know you write like this?” they ask.
I’m pretty sure they were worried about the next party we were headed to, not our dreamy aspirations. Likewise, we were worried about getting caught doing whatever it was we weren’t supposed to be doing. Just kidding, we were good girls.
“You need to write every day,” says her dad.
