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When I confronted my husband, Chris (not his real name), with my test results that night, he denied he was to blame.
"They've got to be wrong, or I must have picked up something in the gym," he insisted.
I thought it was a storybook romance for nine months — until Chris abruptly said, "I can't do this anymore." He refused to explain why; I was distraught and confused.
A few weeks later, over the holidays, we met to talk. Of course, I could have asked more questions, but I convinced myself that Chris had gotten cold feet because we had become serious so quickly.
And I didn't care what went on behind others' closed doors.
I suppose I was always suspicious, but I was in denial.
Early in our relationship, Chris told me he'd had homosexual experiences as a teenager but assured me it was youthful curiosity.
When Chris spoke to a health official who called to check on me (my case had been reported to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta), he realized our baby was at risk for premature birth and newborn pneumonia, and he became hysterical, as though he were having a nervous breakdown.
That evening, after we'd watched our three children play on the lawn of our home in the Washington, D. I was 30 years old when this happened, and Chris and I had been married for 11 years.
We obviously still had feelings for each other, and without explaining why he'd split up with me, Chris declared, "If we're going to be together, let's make it official: Will you marry me? I also had a stubborn streak, which I practiced as a child and maintained throughout our marriage. I wanted to show Chris that I would stick with him through everything.