When my boyfriend Mike’s parents went out of town, he and I would romp in their adjustable beds, raid their refrigerator, and watch movies in their bedroom. One night, walking into the kitchen in my underwear, I noticed a new folk-art family tree that Mike’s mother had made.
“My name should go there,” I said, pointing to a bare apple next to Mike’s.
With that, Mike got some paint, and I wrote my name in. From that moment on, we considered ourselves husband and wife.
Our parents, who were all divorced, insisted that we weren’t really married, but we just laughed. Look at all the good their church weddings had done them. “At least paint can’t be erased by a good lawyer,” Mike would say.
