Something most people close to me know is that I really, really, really love tacos. Someone who absolutely knows this is my husband, who has spent the past 16 years of his life dealing with me and my occasional taco-related tantrums. This is a man who has stood by my side at 4 a.m. in the dark of winter as I waited for tacos from my favorite truck. This is a man who has watched me shove palmfuls of al pastor into my mouth—grease running down my arms, cilantro stuck in my hair—countless times.
Back when we lived in Brooklyn, I would tell him weekly about my dreams of convincing a taco cart to open up next to the halal cart on our block. When we moved to Baltimore five years ago, we ended up in a neighborhood with barely any restaurants, which is what finally got me to shut up about about these now improbable dreams. There are some excellent taco joints in this town I can order from, and though I wish they were closer, I can live with the fact they’re not right outside my door. Perhaps it’s a blessing, forcing me to put away money for my kids to go to college instead of blowing it all on tacos constantly.
Still, that revelation is no excuse for the story I’m about to tell you. Now that we’re both vaccinated, the husband and I decided to take advantage of the sidewalk seating at a local bar and grill, and just as our burgers arrived one of our next door neighbors walked by. My beloved husband asked if he would like to join us, to which our neighbor replied, “No thanks—I’m heading up to check out that taco truck you told me about.” A taco truck that I knew nothing about.
My initial excitement turned to fury in nanoseconds, as I looked our neighbor dead in the eyes and asked, “When did my husband tell you about this taco truck?”
“About six months ago, but it was too damn cold to go out,” he said.
I slowly turned to my husband, crimson flames of fury emanating from my bulging blue eyes. “And where, exactly, is this taco truck?”
This prompted my neighbor to point and say, “See that huge building behind both our houses? It’s right behind it.” He then took off in a sprint toward the truck once he heard my screaming begin.
My husband claims he did not tell me about the taco truck because he was mad at me the day he learned about it, and then somehow “completely forgot about it” until that very moment when our clueless 22-year-old neighbor got a firsthand lesson on the kind of betrayal that can destroy a marriage. The next day, my husband stood next to the taco truck in the pouring rain for 45 minutes in an attempt to win my forgiveness with chicken tinga and birria de res, but I have forgotten nothing. I had finally manifested my taco truck dream into existence, and my supposed soulmate didn’t think to mention it. For six months.
My question to all of you: is it even possible to forgive anyone, much less the father of your children, for an indiscretion such as this? I know that I won’t be forgiving him—I’m really just hoping to have enough people cosigning on this to show him exactly how wrong he was, and how he probably needs to apologize with more tacos. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below.