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To wrap up our Sunday, my husband and I warmed up leftover broccoli, and edamame. We took out some leftover salad, grabbed the chips and hummus, sliced up some peaches and grabbed the last of the cherries, and cut up some tomatoes. We put everything on two trays and headed for our bedroom to watch a couple of episodes of Blue Bloods.

I ate a tomato that my husband had lightly salted. It tasted funny, kind of like dirt. I knew the tomatoes were old, and that my husband had to cut off the bad spots, but I thought they looked good. After I finished the tomato, I said, “The tomatoes taste kind of moldy. I don’t want anymore.”

My husband said, “If they are moldy, let’s just throw them away.”

“Well, I don’t know if they are all moldy, or if I just got a bad piece.”

He ate a slice and said, “Yes, it tastes moldy.”

“Am I going to get sick from eating that tomato?” I asked him.

“No.” He said.

We started to watch the detectives interview someone on the television screen.

“Do you think I am going to get sick from eating that moldy tomato?” I asked.

“If you get sick, we will both get sick, but no. No. I don’t think you will get sick.”

There was a chase scene on the screen.

“Are you sure I won’t get sick?” I asked

“You are not going to get sick.” My husband said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes, I am sure.” He said.

“Okay. Thanks.” I said.

“You’ll be fine.” He said.

After eating our mixed and matched dinner, we put the trays, plates, bowls, chips and hummus away. When we came back to our bedroom, we stretched out on the bed and I laid my head on my husband’s chest – the way I end most evenings, in the comfort of my true love’s arms.

He could have told me to shut up about the tomatoes. He could have told me to stop worrying about it and watch the show. Out of frustration, he could have said, “Yes, you will probably get sick.” But he didn’t. He allowed me to work through my fears, and he worked through them with me.

He is rock steady, he loves and respects me.

I’m not Cinderella, and he is not Prince Charming, but I have my own fairytale – one with mental illness, and the best guy to handle my symptoms sticks with me for years, walking me through the thorny areas of my mind, giving me comfort, giving me safety, giving me shelter, a place to call home.