I suppose the weird thing about me was my want for normalcy, for plainness. I wanted to blend into the anonymity, have a simple house, a simple life, a simple husband. I wanted to be a housewife when I was little. I saw the stress on my parents' relationship because of my mother's long, weary hours at work. I wanted to be in a loving, affection, simple relationship.
But it was Petunia who got that. She got the simple life, the simple house, husband. She didn't work. She cleaned and cooked and made Vernon happy. And I admit—I was jealous.
I worked for it. I longed for it. But instead, I got the quaint little cottage in the country, a ruggedly handsome immature husband, a thrill of adrenaline during each battle, the sight of the brightness of blood against the darkness of death. I was known everywhere I went, either as Lily Evans, the bold, brash beauty or as Lily Potter, James Potter's pretty, thorny wife.
Once I had all that, I couldn't go back. A simple life—where was the fun in that? I worked and there was no stress. A simple husband—what was I thinking? No one was simple, James least of all. Anonymity—that was a bit harder. I didn't like to be stared at, but it was a boost to my ego. A simple house—I had luxury and comfort, simplicity and elegance. Why would I pine for anything else?
I didn't. I never gave it a second thought. I had friends and family, peace and war.
I never believed in Fate before but I had given my life to it.
