Greg and I have been married 11 years.

And for all of those eleven years, my favorite meal in our home has been taco night. I love tacos. Taco night was my favorite dinner as a child growing up, and the meal I still request for birthdays.

So last night, I did what I always do.

Thawed the meat.

Grabbed the shredded cheese, lettuce & tomatoes.

Browned the taco shells.

And like usual, the boys ate everything but their tacos, claiming they weren’t ‘all that hungry.‘ As history repeated itself, Greg ate his dinner, but didn’t ask for seconds. And somehow I found myself asking if Greg had enough, and the smile that he forced told me everything.

He didn’t like tacos.

How did I miss that? More importantly, how did I miss it for eleven years? E-lev-en. That’s a lot of taco nights in this home. In Greg’s defense, he tried to soften the blow with these words: ‘It’s just not my favorite.’ And then he smiled with hesitation as if to say, ‘Please don’t be mad.’

Taco Bell, here I come.

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