When I first started dating Arne, a friend of mine took me aside about a month into my new relationship and gave me what I thought at the time was strange advice. “Don’t freak out when he calls you his ex-wife’s name,” she said.
“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. I couldn’t begin to imagine it. No man had ever called me anything but my own name. My ego reeled at the thought. My friend had been married for ten years to a man who had previously been married for twentyfive years to another woman, and was speaking from experience.
“It’s nothing personal,” my friend continued. “And he’ll feel really bad about it.” Her words haunted me for weeks. After all, the man of my dreams was divorced after a ten-year marriage that lasted most of his twenties and into his early thirties and included three children. He’d spent more than a decade saying her name.
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