He had chosen, cleanly, in front of witnesses, with the whole situation laid bare, and the choosing had answered every question I had been afraid to ask for years.

In a strange way it was a mercy.

The not-knowing is what wears you down, the years of wondering whether he’ll change, whether it’s your fault, whether the next thing will be different.

The doors sliding shut ended the not-knowing.

I knew now.

And a hard truth, it turns out, is more livable than a soft uncertainty, because you can build on a truth.

You can begin, on the far side of a truth, to make a plan.