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He told me his parents planned on coming down the third week of April. 

So, I reminded him that was the week I was moving in.  Not only would I be there, but the boxes would crowd the place.  I didn’t want my mess to be the first time they saw the place, just in case they associated it with me and claim it as a reason they didn’t like it.  It wouldn’t be the first time I’m used as an excuse for them stating they don’t like anything.

The next day, he told me they’d skyped again.  Conveniently, they’d rechecked their schedule and that week didn’t work anymore.  They bought plane tickets for the week before that, while I would still be living two hours away.

I told him that was fine.  Inside, I was relieved.   I wouldn’t have to see them—yet. He knew I was relieved.  I wonder if I can make it all the way to the wedding without seeing them.  Then, I wonder if they’ll even come to the wedding at all.


Our Suppositions
(As to Why They Hate Me)

They’re hoarders—
and I saw their home.
First person to see it in a decade(ish).

I’m fat—
not anymore. 
But they don’t know that.

I’m studying art—
he’s studying medicine and getting a PhD.
I have to support us until he’s a doctor, which will be when he’s 34.

I am honest when I disagree—
he often concedes to my point.
But only if it is logical, and after thorough explanation.

He’s changed for me—
but he wouldn’t for them.
We change each other, challenging ourselves to be better.

I’m selfish—
this one they’ve told us.
Tim and I agree that I am.  I work on it, like he works on his forgetfulness.