I'm writing because I am torn. I am married to the most perfectest man in the world, a small-town sheriff who lost his wife when their ginger son was but the least little speck of a baby. I've raised the little feller as if he were my own, and I wholeheartedly agreed with my husband's desire to father no more children when we married, a decision made concrete with his vasectomy (a decision which, BTW, has made my own contraceptive life so much easier).
Nowadays, with the little rapscallion heading off to serve our country at an Army base in Greenland, and my biological clepsydra plip plopping away, I find myself thinking back to my former beau. We were a perfect couple, on paper, but for some reason it never worked out. It may have had something to do with him raping me now and then, but a few abortions later, at least I know from that unfortunate incident that he is fertile (and so am I).
I'm writing to you despite the fact that someone close to me is a noted advice columnist. Unfortunately, she's my husband's ex-mother-in-law, who still blames my husband nearly twenty years after the death of her daughter. She refuses to talk to any of us, and when I contacted her for advice about my plip plopping, claimed that it would be a violation of professional ethics for a professional Agony Aunt to give advice to a family member.
So Prudie, please tell me, is that really true, or is she just being a hateful old bitch as usual?
In a DIL Pickle