The breaking point, when it came, was not dramatic.
It was a Tuesday evening. I was sitting on the couch with my feet up and a bowl of cereal because I had not felt like cooking, watching nothing in particular on television, and I started to cry. Not about Marcus or Devin or the divorce or the pregnancy. About none of it specifically and all of it at once.
I cried for the anniversary dinner that had become someone else's party. I cried for every morning I had made coffee for two and eaten alone. I cried for the version of my life I had been building in my head for five years, the version that had assumed certain things would hold. I cried for the woman I had been before I understood that love without honesty was just dependency with better lighting.
I cried for a long time. Then I stopp
