A Bellyful of Trust

When Mary and I were newlyweds, we didn’t have a whole lot—not much in the way of furniture or savings or good sense—but we had each other, and that seemed like more than enough most days. We were in that spot between poor and blissful, and dinners often came out of a box labeled “just add water.”

Love was simple then. So were the meals.

Now, Mary had a friend named Beth, who, bless her heart, had a nose for trouble and a mouth just fast enough to get herself into it. She was the kind of woman who could find tension in a bubble bath. Beth came by one afternoon with what she called “concerning news,” which is never a good start to any conversation.

“I saw Tom,” she said, her voice all hushed and dramatic like she was about to reveal a state secret. “He was talking to that redhead at the post office. Laughing. Flirting.”

Mary barely looked up from folding laundry. She gave a little smile, not the least bit bothered. “Let him,” she said. “I wanna see how long he can suck in his stomach.”

Beth blinked like she hadn’t expected that answer. She probably thought there’d be yelling, accusations, maybe some dramatic throwing of dishware. But instead, she got Mary, who had all the serenity of a cat in the shade and knew her husband better than any busybody ever would.

Now, I didn’t know any of this until years later. Mary told me the story after Beth had long since drifted out of our lives, probably off to find someone else’s marriage to diagnose. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my coffee.

“You really said that?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “Well, you do puff up when you’re trying to be charming.”

And she’s not wrong. I’ve never been one for gyms or jogging or anything that makes me sweat on purpose, but I do have a bad habit of tightening everything up when I’m trying to make a good impression. I call it posture. Mary calls it wishful thinking.

But what got me about that story—what still makes me smile whenever I think about it—wasn’t just the punchline. It was the trust behind it.

Mary knew me. Knew my heart.

She knew I wasn’t out there playing fast and loose with our vows. And even if I had been dumb enough to try, she had faith that my abs would give out before my conscience did.

That kind of trust is rarer than gold. It’s built in quiet moments, over burnt toast and evening walks and those long talks when the power goes out.

You can’t fake it, and you sure can’t force it. Mary had it from day one. She was secure, not because I was perfect, but because she understood the difference between harmless banter and something worth worrying over.

Beth never tattled again after that. I think she realized there wasn’t much point in trying to rattle a woman who’d already decided to laugh at life’s little dramas.

And me? Well, I still puff out my chest now and then, mostly out of habit. But I do it for Mary, not for redheads at the post office.

And I’ve learned over time that love, real love, doesn’t need a six-pack. Just a belly full of laughter and a heart full of grace.