Sometimes, curiosity doesn’t just kill the cat—it throws it into an existential crisis, sets its life on fire, and then asks it to pay for the emotional damages. And here I was, holding a piece of paper that was never meant to see the light of day, let alone my horrified eyes. A single sheet of paper that was about to turn my life into a soap opera with a dash of mathematical absurdity.
Let me rewind. Mildred and I had been orbiting each other since the 11th grade like two comets that occasionally collided but mostly just left a trail of chaos. We were the kind of couple people called “soulmates” while we were busy calling other people “for tonight.” We were in our whore eras—a term I use with the utmost respect for our younger, wilder selves. College, careers, and cities pulled us apart, but mutual friends kept us vaguely connected, like two characters in a Netflix series that keeps getting renewed despite declining ratings.
Fast forward to a random Tuesday. I was out with the boys, pretending to enjoy overpriced tacos, when I spotted a woman sitting alone at the bar. She was stunning—like, stop-mid-bite-and-choke-on-your-guacamole stunning. My friends, being the mature adults they are, started making jokes about my “creepy staring.” But something about her felt… familiar. Like a song you can’t quite place but hum anyway. And then, as if the universe itself was playing matchmaker, she looked right at me. We locked eyes for what felt like an eternity, but was probably just long enough for my friends to start placing bets.
I did what any self-respecting romantic would do: I paid for her meal anonymously and left without a word. Smooth, right? Wrong. I spent the next three days obsessing over her, trying to figure out where I knew her from. Then, at exactly 3:06 a.m., the realization struck me mid-dream like divine intervention with a rogue Uber Eats delivery: It was Mildred.
Cue the Facebook stalking. Lo and behold, there was a message from her: “Were you at Lalette earlier? I thought I saw you.” Bingo. We started texting, and within 24 hours, we were planning our first date in years. Mildred had matured like a fine wine—or maybe a well-aged cheese. Either way, she was breathtaking, and I was smitten. We were both ready to settle down, and before I knew it, I was down on one knee, holding a ring and a prayer. It was a whirlwind of romance, growth, and the kind of love that makes you believe in forever.
But here’s where things got… complicated.
See, Mildred had found Jesus somewhere between her “extracurricular phase” and our engagement, which meant we had to go through marital counselling at her church. I didn’t mind. A little spiritual prep work seemed harmless, I agreed, because, well, love makes you do questionable things. The counsellor, a lovely woman named Telly, had us do an exercise: write down every person we’d ever slept with, seal it in an envelope, and burn it during our last session as a “spiritual release.” Sounds harmless, right? Wrong.
I went home and started my list. At first, it was fun, like flipping through a yearbook of bad decisions. The more names I wrote, the more horrified I became. When I hit 50, I winced. When I hit 100, I felt mildly ill. By the time I reached 150, I had to sit down and hydrate. By the time I finished, I had 189 names. One Hundred and Eighty-Nine. I realized I was less Casanova and more…well, a walking STD pamphlet. Mildred would be number 190, and I was ready to retire my player card forever. I sealed the envelope, labelled it “Xavier,” and tucked it away, feeling equal parts pride and shame. That was behind me now.
Or so I thought.
The next Saturday, Mildred asked me to drive her to the nail salon. She left her notebook in the car, and that’s when I saw it: her envelope, sticking out like a bad decision waiting to happen. Against my better judgment—which, let’s be honest, has never been my strong suit.
Her envelope. Peeking out. Unsealed.
I fought the urge. I really did. But my fingers had a mind of their own. I pulled out the list. It felt… thick.I opened it. And there it was: Mildred’s list. It had over three hundred names. Three. Hundred. Names. My brain short-circuited. My stomach did a backflip. I suddenly understood why people faint at weddings.
Mildred, the woman with the face of an angel and the body of a goddess, had been with over three hundred men. I sat there in shock, rereading the names. Some looked familiar. Some of the names were my friends. People I was considering inviting to the wedding. People I had shaken hands with. Some were potential groomsmen. I felt like I’d just discovered my favourite rom-com was actually a documentary about the apocalypse.
I threw up.
When Mildred returned, she saw me pale and sweating. I was a shell of a man. She asked if I was okay, and I mumbled something about food poisoning. She suggested stopping at a pharmacy. I declined. There was no cure for this. We drove to the counselling session in silence, my mind racing faster than a caffeinated cheetah. Counsellor Telly took one look at me and suggested we skip the chit-chat and go straight to burning the envelopes. As the flames consumed our lists, out of nowhere I broke down., Tears streamed down my face. Not the dignified, silent kind. The ugly, full-body-wracking, regret-filled sobs of a man whose entire worldview had been shattered
Mildred and Pastor Telly exchanged concerned glances. Finally, I blurted it out. I confessed that I had peeked at her list. Mildred’s response was not what I expected. Mildred didn’t get angry. She didn’t cry. She didn’t deny it. She didn’t get defensive. She just looked at me with this eerie calmness and asked, “Do you still want to marry me?”.I stared at her, dumbfounded. Then she dropped the mic by hitting me with the kind of truth that alters DNA.
“You’ve been around too, Xavier. You have 190. I have 300. The only reason this bothers you is because of social bias. Society lets men have pasts, but women have to pretend they were born yesterday. Society gives you a high-five while it gives me a side-eye. But guess what? Those numbers don’t define us. We define us. And right now, the only three people in the world who know my number are in this room. So, what happens next is entirely up to you.”
I sat there, stunned. Had I really walked into this thinking my history was acceptable, but hers wasn’t? Had I really convinced myself that my past was just “experience,” while hers was a problem? She was right. I had been judging her for the same thing I’d been celebrating in myself. It was a wake-up call wrapped in a reality check, delivered by the woman I loved.
So, did we get married? Yes. Was it awkward explaining to my groomsmen why they weren’t invited? Also, yes.
But here’s the twist: Mildred and I turned our lists into a game. Every anniversary, we burn a piece of paper with a lesson we’ve learned about love, trust, and not being a hypocrite. And honestly? It’s the most fun I’ve ever had with a lighter.
And if you think 300 is a high number, you should see our mortgage.
Love isn’t about the past—it’s about who you’re willing to build a future with. And maybe, just maybe, don’t open envelopes that aren’t addressed to you. Trust me on that one.