One early summer day, we sat on the deck, fingers greasy from Popeyes, watching our older girls chase our little boys. My husband was working late, and I didn’t tell him we wouldn’t be there when he got home. I told Matthew about my misery and how I wished there was another woman. Something I could point to, some event I could hold on to and say, “This! This! Is why I am allowed to go.” Something that would justify my act of selfishness.

Instead, I was just unhappy. I was so unhappy. I had dreams I was drowning, pulled under a green murky water by his hands.

“Is it enough to break my life apart just to be happy?”

“Yes.” Matthew said this so simply. So clearly. As if it shouldn’t even be a question.