My name is Margaret Harris, and for most of my adult life, I believed I understood my husband.
His name was Walter.
We were married for fifty years.
Fifty years of birthdays, holidays, arguments, reconciliations, family dinners, and ordinary mornings that I once believed would continue forever.
We raised three children.
We watched them grow up, leave home, marry, and give us seven grandchildren.
There were difficult years, of course.
No marriage survives half a century without them.
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