Chapter 4: The Honeymoon
Four months after our daughter was born, we got married.
It was 1989, and the wedding was traditional in every visible way. Formal invitations. A silk ivory dress. Bridesmaids in lace. A garden ceremony, a live band, a full meal, and an open bar. One hundred and fifty people gathered to celebrate us, and by all appearances, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.
The next morning, hungover and laughing about the night before, I felt certain we had crossed into something solid. I believed the wedding had sealed us into stability, that the hard parts were behind us now.
For our honeymoon, I booked a hotel in Newport, Rhode Island, close enough that we could return easily if we missed the baby too much. Ryan agreed it made sense to stay nearby. Newport had everything a honeymoon was supposed to have: water, restaurants, sailboats, and the feeling of having arrived somewhere important.
On the drive there, Ryan said something that unsettled me.
“If we run into anyone from Boston College,” he said, “I’d rather not tell them we’re on our honeymoon.”
I waited for him to laugh. He didn’t.
“Why?” I asked.
“I just don’t want to call attention to it,” he said.
I said okay. I didn’t know what else to say. The feeling that rose in my chest was unfamiliar but unmistakable. Something was wrong, and I didn’t yet have the language for it.
We ended our honeymoon early.
On the drive home, we talked about logistics, the baby, work, schedules. There was no fight, no confrontation, just a subtle recalibration. Whatever I had thought marriage would clarify, it didn’t. Instead, things became quieter, more procedural, as though something essential had already been decided without being discussed.
For several days after the honeymoon, I sat alone in the dark loft of our tiny apartment, the fear from the phone booth in Wellfleet settling back into my body.
I told myself this was what adulthood looked like. You adjusted. You moved forward. You didn’t risk disrupting what so many people had already invested in.