Everything My Husband Wasn’t There For
In April 1996, Jeffrey R. Smith moved from Florida into my apartment above the Old Print Shop on Lexington Avenue in New York City. I had lived alone for almost 10 years at that point. I cannot say I was living the Carrie Bradshaw life, but I was an independent woman. I loved my job at ABC News, I traveled around the world for work and for pleasure, and I was a doctoral candidate in English literature at NYU. It was a good life, made immeasurably better when Jeff moved in.
Within six months, while on a dive trip to Little Cayman, he proposed. Six months later we were married. We dove in the Coral Sea on our honeymoon, then returned to our jobs, me to ABC, him to his office at the investment-banking firm Sandler O’Neill, on the 104th floor of Two
