I got married in May, on a Sunday. It was, to some extent, an act of rebellion. I wanted to be different from everybody else. A week before I had invited a priest, a friend of mine, to my stag party. Half way through the evening, a little tipsy, we all went out onto the terrace of the restaurant, which faced the sea.
I asked my friend, "Well Father, do you have any advice to give me before I take the plunge?"
He looked at me and said, "Yes. Don't push originality and nonconformism to the point where you reject the old ways that worked so well. You want your marriage to last? Well then, listen to every word your wife says."
Seven years have gone by. We had a child, and our fair share of joy and pain. And our love... well it seems to have extinguished itself, without my taking notice. I didn't forget the advice of my friend the priest, but it seems that I know my wife almost as well as I know myself, and that I can predict every word she says even before she says it, which is a little disappointing.
One night I went back to see the person I derisively called my 'Father.'
I explained the situation and again asked him for advice. "I listen to every word she says, but I don't see how that has changed anything."
My friend served himself a glass, and filled mine. As we touched glasses and the ice cubes clinked he looked at me and said, "You have only done half the work. Now go back home and listen to every word your wife doesn't say."
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