Marrying the love of my life came with sacrifices.  We met in my hometown while he was there on business, and if we were going to pursue our relationship, I would have to move to Los Angeles.  I fell hard and quickly, and my bags were packed just nine short months after our first date.  I never looked back, which if you knew me then, was completely out of character.  If an award was given for ‘least likely to move away from home’, I would have won it.  I was a homebody, spending more time with my parents during my late teen years than with friends.  A bit strange, I’ll admit.  From the first glance into H’s eyes, I was smitten.  A current much stronger than my desire to stay close to home carried me swiftly to the West Coast.  My Dad cried when I told him I was moving to California.  My mom did not.  At least she didn’t cry in front of me.  Being the sixth of ten children, she had probably grown impervious to the whims of her children by then.  Maybe she thought it was just an impetuous move, by an infatuated young girl, caught up with the prospects of life in the City of Angels.  Or perhaps, when you have that many kids, giving one up to migration is less traumatic than when you have an only child. Continue reading →