Letter

When I was 19 I wrote my 40-year-old self a letter that I am about to read.
Here we go,

"Hey, Mary Kate, it's you.
It's September 10, 1993, you're 19-years-old and a freshman in college. You just finished your first week at Manhattan College, and so far, it's overwhelming but you love it. You've met lots of friends and great people including Brent. He is definitely the best guy you've ever met, and if you're not married to him when you're reading this I'm going to kill you. It's weird writing to myself as if it's someone else, but it basically is. You're probably a completely a different person now. A knowledgeable 40-year-old mother/wife who knows everything about the world, while at this point in time, I'm nothing but a scared teenager. You are probably living a life of luxury now. Just being out of my house for a week has been a sigh of relief. I love it here, and I am looking forward to the next four years. I hope you're as happy as I've hoped you would be. I've worked hard for you and your kids and plan to work even harder for the rest of my life. I hope it has and will pay off for you. I hope everything's okay. I also hope this reminds you of who you were, and that you haven't changed much, only gotten smarter and happier.
It was great meeting you,
You."

I can't help but notice all the tears that have dropped onto the old, crumpled page. Everything I wished for myself had come true, even spending my life with Brent. Reading this note made me so happy to the point of tears, and making me want to die, really.
Brent died three days ago. And our two children have gone off to college.
I hope you were happy, 19-year-old me, because the great times you had with Brent are now gone.
And so is any happiness you worked so hard for.