I began seeing a therapist, not because I needed someone to tell me whether my marriage was over, but because I wanted to understand why I had minimized my own needs for so long.

I had become expert at being competent, dependable, and calm.

I had forgotten that I could also be confused, wounded, and deserving of care.

The woman in the green-stained dress had been remarkably composed.

But composure was not the same as being untouched.

Little by little, I allowed myself to feel the full cost of what had happened.

Anger came and went.

Sadness stayed longer.