Yes.

“What about us… do you think we’ll get married?”

Yes.

That’s how she wanted to answer, but couldn’t.

Yes.

Yes, she thought, but didn’t say.

Yes, I do think we’ll get married.

Yes, you’ve been my goal since the day I met you.

Yes, of course, YES, you’re the one. You’ve always been the one.

Yes.

Yes, please. Ask me to marry you. Yes. I want to say yes. The only answer to this question is …

Yes.

Instead, the fear made her gasp in mock horror at the question, and instead of answering the way her heart wanted her to answer, she stammered, uhhhh, no… I’m never getting married…

He broke up with her soon after that.

All she had to say was yes, that night in 1994.

A yes would have changed her life. And his life. And the lives of the kids they would have had. And the grandkids.

Twenty five years later, there could very well have been grandkids.

And then, of course, she could have avoided that whole twenty five years of wondering what might have been…

Three letters.

One complete sentence.

But instead of saying yes, she chose twenty five years of horrendous abuse and tears and heartache and even the men who appeared to be good but in the end only played mind games – ugh, the mind games – the nights of laying in bed wondering what the hell just happened, because of the mind games – and every single year and month and day and week and minute and every last torturous mind game ultimately made her think back to that night on the elementary school playground back in 1994 when she should have just freaking said yes.

If you see John, tell him she’s sorry.

So. Very. Sorry.

She really, really wishes she would have said yes.