I believed that I had a healthy marriage for a period of ten years. I had two children, a house, and a life that I assumed was built on love. Mark and I had all of these things. I was able to convince myself that we were a team, despite the fact that he was not exactly a hands-on husband. He did not cook, clean, or spend much time with the children.
It was a typical afternoon when everything broke down. I had just returned from going grocery shopping, and I was mentally getting ready to carry everything inside by myself, as is my usual routine. It was just as I was reaching for the first bag that I became aware of voices coming from the porch.
Emma was the daughter of our neighbor, who also happened to be 25 years old and had recently returned to town after completing her internship in interior design. When her parents talked about her, they did so with a beaming expression of pride. At this moment, she was sitting on my porch, giggling with my brother.
Something prevented me from making a shout out, but I was about to do so. As an alternative, I proceeded to huddle behind my vehicle, concealed by the goods, and listened.