I was afraid of being the woman whose marriage failed, afraid of the silence at family gatherings, afraid of admitting to everyone including myself that I had chosen wrong and stayed wrong for years.

And that fear had a price, and the price came due in a living room in Mesa, in the form of a hand across my face and a man I had married kneeling over me.

I keep that envelope in mind, still, as a lesson written in my own handwriting: the exit had been drawn and signed and sitting six inches from my clothes the entire time, and the only thing standing between me and it, for six long months, had been my own unwillingness to be seen leaving.

I carried the suitcase and the envelope back out.

They were arranged on the sofa like royalty, Craig lighting a cigarette indoors, which I had never once allowed.

He sneered when he saw the luggage.