Baldilocks links to this must-read post. Here's the teaser.
Sean does not like it when I call him a 9/11 Victim. He tells me he's not a victim. His coworkers who died were victims. His wife of ten years was a victim. He was just there when it happened.
When we are together, I ask him questions about her. He is patient with me, explaining their relationship, not diminishing it just because she is no longer here, which I appreciate. I listen, trying to understand how it must feel to be in his skin and to live through that day and the thousand days that have passed. A few weeks ago, while in New York, I sat on the counter of his modern kitchen while he poured glasses of red wine. On the fridge was a snapshot of his wife and their son taken in Central Park that September. She's tiny, with a brown ponytail, bright brown eyes, and a natural, genuinely happy grin. I didn't feel like an interloper, exactly. Maybe an observer. A witness. Had things been different, she is the kind of woman who might be one of my best friends.
Instead, I'm dating her husband.
Go read it all.