Erm, he’s not my husband

Photo my own – taken this afternoon, Lin, Lake Ohrid, Albania

12 August 2024

Earlier this afternoon, while I was sitting on this “garden sofa” with my laptop, on this absolutely gorgeous terrace at a B&B in Lin on Lake Ohrid, Albania, a fellow resident smiled at me and said, “Your husband is a really good swimmer, isn’t he?” I agreed, then added, “Erm, actually, he’s not my husband.” It’s a phrase I have found myself saying often this holiday; more often than I expected, and it always creates a bit of a jolt in the conversation—like a ripple disturbing the surface of this eminently calm lake.

So I’ve been reflecting on why I feel such an urge to correct people, to set the record straight, when strangers refer to Medjool as “my husband.” Some examples from the last few days include:

• “Your husband is a really good swimmer, isn’t he?”
• “Could your husband get out of the car, then you can park closer to the wall?”
• “What would your husband like to drink for breakfast?”
• “Where do you and your husband come from?”
• “Could your husband remember to leave a review on airbnb?”

Sometimes—more so than in our very early years together (for we are still “early years”) — I let the comment slide, and the conversation simply carries on. But more often than not, I feel compelled to correct it and say, “Erm, actually, he’s not my husband.”

That’s when we have the jolt, a rough bump in the fabric of the conversation.

The person I’m speaking to apologises, possibly feels a little awkward, and then, to comfort them, I say, “Oh, but no worries,” or something similar. Trying to laugh it off now. But flow has been disrupted, even if imperceptibly.

If I let the “husband” language go, without comment, it doesn’t change the nature, content, tone, or flow of the conversation I’m having with these people—who are invariably strangers. Some interactions last just a few sentences—not even a minute. Other interactions might go on for a few days, for example, if we’re staying somewhere and having ongoing conversations with airbnb hosts. Nothing very significant or life-changing. All of them simply random meetings of souls on our blue-green planet as it hurtles through space.

I’ve reflected back on the nine years I was with Mike before we got married. If people back then referred to him as my husband, past a certain age (say 25), I didn’t bother correcting them. I have friends who have been in committed relationships for decades without being formally married. Again, if the spouse is referred to as “wife” or “husband” and it’s not “technically correct,” I notice that they don’t feel the same urge to correct. I’ve even noticed that when I am referred to as Medjool’s wife, which happens, he doesn’t correct them.

So why do I?

I think it’s about honouring Mike, acknowledging his existence, his presence, his absence.

Without wanting to minimise the depth and importance of my relationship with Medjool, he is not my husband, and I don’t want the emotional weight of the term “husband” to be misused or misapplied.

Perhaps the word “husband” carries all the more weight when a husband has died. Husband means-implies “Mike” to me, not “Medjool”.

My bond and my shared history with Mike are irreplaceable, even if, even when, I am in another deep, meaningful, and precious relationship.

I also don’t want to conflate “Medjool” and “marriage”, perhaps also because he is just a tad anti-marriage. While we are committed to one another, to being together, we will not be getting married. Not in this lifetime. We both support that decision. So perhaps that’s another facet—I don’t want to be sloppy with words, roles, or relationships that don’t go together. Medjool is not my husband. I know that.

There might also be something about honouring my story, and being loyal to my narrative at all times. Mike is not here to defend our history, so I choose to do so. If conversations go further, I want this fantastically important piece of data to be known and incorporated in whatever follows, even in a 3-day relationship.

The term “husband”, for me, is not just a random label or title to be tossed about lightly. Instead, it’s a bond of a long relationship, a shared history, one that incorporates three children, only two of whom are still alive. By being crispy clean and crystal clear about the language used, I think I inherently honour all that was, all that is, and ensure there is still space for Mike and all of us.

My relationship with Medjool also has a different feel, a different timbre, to my relationship with Mike, five years in. Now in my late fifties, I am more than twice the age I was when I met Mike – even five years into our relationship. The time-space reality with Medjool is so different to that I had with Mike. Vitally important, yet “utterly other”. And so I need a different word to denote, to sum up, my relationship with Medjool. He’s not my husband. That word, that role is taken. By Mike. And Medjool is my partner.

With all of that, it makes utter sense to me that I bring out my correctional tone. It’s what I need to be able to navigate the still tricky terrain of holding two beautiful love stories. One with someone who has died, and one with someone who continues to live.

Correcting permits me to carry both these complex narratives in my “both-and world.”

I’d love to know what my fellow Widbuds think, whether re-partnered, re-married, or not.