Gabriel Mizrahi

I'm 43 years old and I live with my sweetheart, who's about one and a half years younger than me.

He and I have been together for three years.

We are not married.

We live in a rural area.

He is the estranged prodigal son of a millionaire wheat farmer who owns thousands of acres of 19th century pioneer settled land, and he's been cut out of any role in his family's land, which they have farmed for five generations.

I know.

It doesn't happen very often, does it?

Every once in a while.

Always something new.

So she goes on, the reasons he was cut out are complex, but suffice it to say that both son and father have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

Jeez, that is a lot.

Both the disorders and the fact that she calls her boyfriend sweetheart.

I don't know.

It might be.

I've never heard this.

I guess it's cute.

I'm not sure.

This is something you would see written on the back of a black and white photo in a GI's pocket in 1942.

It began with middle school marijuana use and car theft for funsies, then became rich kid cocaine use, then full-blown meth-addled insanity and living on the streets by his late 20s.

I can understand why daddy might not want this kid near the family wheat.