Trust Me

Do you remember what you said when I asked you if you trust me? You'd taken my purse from my hand, opened it and looked through the contents before handing it back to me. 

"I trust you very little, my dear, and that's more than I trust most others."

I remembered what you said today as it hit me that my biggest mistake in life was directly the opposite. I trusted you more than any others, right from the beginning.

I thought the depth of our love, first love, true love, ages 15 and 16 and 16 and 17 and 17 and 18 and 25 and 26 and whenever we were together, was more than sufficient for trust. You put me in danger at 32 and still I trusted that you would keep your word subsequently.

Tell me this, please. Did you think, knowing me all those years, that I would take a story to the National Enquirer? Even understanding the recent surprise I gave you, did you honestly think at some point that someone whose heart you knew so well would join the ranks of women who'd had private relationships with foreign leaders and sold a one-page story to a supermarket tabloid?

(By the way, either your oldest son or someone acting as him expressed to my daughter a concern that details could end up in the Seattle Times. I pointed out no such thing had happened in decades and was unlikely to happen then.)

Maybe there was only one page to those stories. Maybe they weren't as intriguing as ours, mixed in with politics and world affairs. 

How's your trust level doing today? Do you still trust me more than most others, my dear? 

I do wonder sometimes if you've appreciated my discretion all these years. You didn't ask me for it. It was a gift from me to you. Some gifts wear out over time and cannot be repaired.