To ensure a successful marriage, a man must understand true love.
My wife and I have been happily married for more than a quarter of a century—something of a minor miracle in Southern California. So I feel qualified, at least in a reckless, anecdotal way, to recognize true love when I see it.
That’s why Benny asked me to lunch.
We met on a bright Hollywood afternoon. Benny had just returned from shooting a film at Machu Picchu and had something important to tell me. When a recently divorced cinematographer invites you to lunch and says he has “something important,” you don’t expect good judgment—you expect a story.
I’ve known Benny for 35 years—long enough to remember when he couldn’t focus a camera, let alone a life. He grew into one of those men women describe as “a catch”: tall, talented, kind, with just enough self-awareness not to weaponize his intelligence. He teaches film at USC and makes things look beautiful for a living.
A year earlier, his marriage had detonated. His wife cheated, confessed, repeated, and then made a sport of it. Benny forgave her—several times—until forgiveness became less a virtue and more a hobby. When it finally ended, he looked like a man who had been politely dismantled.
My advice to him was simple.
“Take your time. Meet her family. Let her meet yours. And talk—about everything. Not just the big dreams. The small habits. That’s where marriages actually live.”
He nodded then. He always nodded. Benny is an excellent nodder.
So when he said, “I met someone,” I braced myself.
“Her name is Ruby. I met her in Lima.”
He showed me her photo.
Ruby was stunning—one of those faces that doesn’t just look at you, it recruits you. Long legs, luminous eyes, the kind of beauty that makes men consider international travel as a lifestyle choice.
“Are you going to marry her?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m serious. I love her.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Quite a few days.”
I ordered a Scotch.
“You’ve met her family?”
“Not yet. I will—at the wedding.”
“Which is…?”
“Next week. Lima. Can you make it?”
I stared at him the way one stares at a man explaining his investment strategy in a burning building.
“Your father? Your sister?”
“They’ll meet her after.”
“After the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Benny…”
“I can save $200,000 if we marry before Friday.”
This was new.
“How?”
“Ruby has a 19-year-old daughter. Dental school. If we move fast, she qualifies for in-state tuition.”
“Naturally.”
“Ruby is amazing with money.”
“Does she have any?”
“No. But she wants to make a home.”
“What does she do?”
“PR, I think. She only speaks Spanish.”
“And you?”
“Love is its own language.”
I ordered another Scotch.
“How many children does Ruby have?”
“Two that I’ve met. Possibly more.”
“Possibly.”
“Her son’s 15. Just out of reform school. Great kid.”
“Reform school.”
“Yes.”
“And the father?”
“Died mysteriously.”
“Conveniently.”
“She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Of course she doesn’t.”
“You don’t understand,” Benny said. “Peruvian women don’t lie.”
At that moment, his phone rang. Ruby.
They spoke for thirty minutes in a language that was neither English nor Spanish but seemed perfectly suited to the suspension of reason. When he hung up, he looked radiant.
“Bad news,” he said. “Her daughter can’t get a visa.”
“So… the wedding?”
“Still on. I love her.”
I grabbed his arm.
“Why the rush?”
He pulled away gently.
“I promised her. I won’t hurt her like the last guy did.”
“You didn’t hurt her.”
“No—but I could.”
“You’re Canadian,” I said. “It’s not in your skill set.”
“Can’t you see?” he said. “This is true love.”
“Oh, I see it,” I said. “Perfectly.”
And he was gone—out the door, into destiny, trailing optimism like confetti.
I never got to tell him the one thing I’ve learned about true love.
If you recognize it—if it blinds you, lifts you, convinces you that nothing else matters—you should never marry in that moment.
True love is the worst possible foundation for a marriage.
Marriage requires vision. True love removes it.
Over the next year, Benny married Ruby, made ten trips to Lima, and became the financial backbone of a family he barely knew. One revelation followed another: a prior marriage that hadn’t ended, a past involving a cartel figure now serving life in prison, details that arrived like invoices—late and non-negotiable.
Benny is now broke. Thoroughly, impressively broke.
And he is not alone.
I know several men—good men—who have followed similar paths across Thailand, China, the Philippines, Peru. None of them are rich. They simply earn more than the women they fall in love with.
Which, in the right context, makes them kings.
For about a month each year.
The rest of the time, they are funding a life lived elsewhere—sending money, buying tickets, chasing affection across time zones and currencies.
Why would these women come to America?
To earn less, live smaller, and start over?
Or stay where a modest monthly check turns them into royalty?
It’s not romance. It’s arithmetic.
And Benny, my friend, did not lose because he was foolish.
He lost because he was sincere.
Which, in matters of the heart, is often the most expensive mistake a man can make.