My husband told me he couldn't kiss me anymore.
At 39, I felt like I was losing my marriage over something I couldn't control.
He said he loved me. That he wanted to make it work. But every time I leaned in, he'd pull away.
"Sarah," he finally admitted one night, "I just... I can't. Your breath..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
I'd cup my hand over my mouth and breathe into it every 30 minutes. I'd lick my wrist and smell it 10 seconds later. Constantly checking, constantly paranoid, constantly hoping this time would be different.
But that metallic, rotten-egg taste never went away.
Maybe you know exactly what I'm talking about. You're constantly checking your breath, chewing gum before every conversation, and using mouthwash to try to fix your breath.
I was losing him. And I didn't know how to stop it.
I thought I was doing something wrong.
But it turns out I wasn't.