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In 50 years of marriage, they only slept together once.

They used their room, her room, as any other couple does, to watch a movie on a Saturday night when you don't feel like going out,

to read in bed, side by side, sometimes interrupting each other to share something particularly funny, to make love in the way long-term couples do, repetitive, because you're horny more than because you actually desire the other person, possibly thinking of someone else, and going for that well rehearsed movement that guarantees the usual orgasm - not the most intense you’ve ever had, but good enough to be satisfied and then move on to other things -, to wish each other good night with a smooch after turning off the light on the bedside table, exactly as any other couple does.

To cuddle in the morning, have a coffee and get ready for the day, scheduling who’s bringing the kids to piano lesson and who’s picking them up, to have the famous pillow talks - which incidentally are probably the best part of being in a relationship- exactly as any other couple does.

But she snored too much. She snored so loud that he had to wear earplugs even if he slept in the next room, she snored so loud that their first night together she didn't sleep at all, lest he would immediately regret having married her, she snored so loud and she was ashamed of it and made him promise never to tell anyone.

She was ashamed and she didn't want anyone to know that her husband had to sleep in another room and wear earplugs.

She was ashamed and their guestroom was kept locked and referred to as the closet, so that they didn’t have to explain to their friends why they had to sleep on the couch when they stayed over.

 

The plate belonged to her who snored too loud and was ashamed and made her husband promise to not tell anyone that he slept in the “closet”.

It belonged to her since she had bought it in the only trip abroad she had ever been on, and only because it was their soon to be in-laws who paid for the ferry.

The gas for the car they shared, but it was OK because the port was only 50 minutes away from where they lived.

 

She bought the plate in the village market - quaint she had defined it. She wrapped it into a local newspaper to bring it home, and exposed it on the cupboard in the living room. No one in the family was allowed to touch it, because she deemed it too precious to be eaten on. She then passed it to her daughter when she got married - the daughter less of a snorer and more of a blanket stealer, who nevertheless managed to successfully share the bed with her husband for 3 years, until they got divorced (not because of the blanket). Her daughter then became my mother in-law, and gave us the plate when we got engaged. We keep it on the coffee table in the living room, normally filled with candied ginger - a passion of my husband.

 

Once I had a fight with my husband, I got so mad that I took the plate and threw it on the floor. It broke in so many little pieces. I felt immediately ashamed. My husband was livid with rage and he left the apartment without a word. I felt so bad for having broken something so beautiful and ancient, something who had belong to a woman who snored so loud that she was ashamed of it and then to another one who was a blanket stealer and didn’t give a shit. And now through my husband it belonged to me, a woman who in a fit of rage would purposely break something and then feel ashamed. I got the superglue from the drawer in the kitchen and started glueing together all the pieces I could find. It was so hard! I’ve never been good at these DIY things, you can see for yourself…

Look, it’s only about a quarter of the plate that I managed to piece together. But even if I couldn’t bring the plate back to life, with this pathetic effort perhaps I thought I could redeem myself.