Twenty-nine years ago today I left my then legal husband, Phil, and moved in with Paul on Springhurst Avenue in Toronto. It was during the CNE, and with the casual rain of coincidence that marks every part of my life, there were fireworks every night; we’d sit on the third floor balcony overlooking Lake Ontario and watch them.
Three years ago this past spring I moved out. Our friendship is now more solid – and more civil – than it ever was. But we had to go through a lot of dross burning off first.
