I Was 34; He was 20

Photo by Josh Felise

We got married.

I never meant to get involved with him in the first place, and I never dreamed I’d marry him. I would have laughed at the idea. I did laugh at the idea. Until I didn’t.

At 33, I was getting a divorce. I had two children, a demanding job, and bills I had to figure out how to pay without my estranged husband’s income. The last thing on my mind was romance and the last person I would have imagined as a lover was a then 19-year-old boy.

Will* was just a kid who had become a fishing and hunting buddy to my ex. I never paid much attention to him.

Somehow, it seemed after my husband and I separated that I’d won custody of young Will. I was mildly annoyed that he kept showing up. I couldn’t get rid of him. But he made himself useful to a stretched-too-thin single mother; and soon enough I developed both an increasingly friendliness toward him and a dependence on his help. He mowed my yard, watched my kids if I had to go out unexpectedly, ran errands for me, and even sometimes cooked for us.

He was vocal about how he’d hated what my ex had done to cause the divorce. He consoled me, listened to me, and proved to be a good and reliable friend despite our age difference. On one or two occasions I sensed that Will was developing a crush on me, and I…