Chapter 2

           

           AndsinceIamalreadydownthereinsupplicationonthefloor,letmeholdthatpositionasIreachbackintimethreeyearsearliertothemomentwhenthisentirestorybegan-amomentwhichalsofoundmeinthisexactsameposture:onmyknees,onafloor,praying.

           Everythingelseaboutthethree-years-agoscenewasdifferent,though.Thattime,IwasnotinRomebutintheupstairsbathroomofthebighouseinthesuburbsofNewYorkwhichI’drecentlypurchasedwithmyhusband.ItwasacoldNovember,aroundthreeo’clockinthemorning.Myhusbandwassleepinginourbed.Iwashidinginthebathroomforsomethingliketheforty-seventhconsecutivenight,and-justasduringallthosenightsbefore-Iwassobbing.Sobbingsohard,infact,thatagreatlakeoftearsandsnotwasspreadingbeforemeonthebathroomtiles,averitableLakeInferior(ifyouwill)ofallmyshameandfearandconfusionandgrief.

           Idon’twanttobemarriedanymore.

           Iwastryingsohardnottoknowthis,butthetruthkeptinsistingitselftome.

           Idon’twanttobemarriedanymore.Idon’twanttoliveinthisbighouse.Idon’twanttohaveababy.

           ButIwassupposedtowanttohaveababy.Iwasthirty-oneyearsold.MyhusbandandI-whohadbeentogetherforeightyears,marriedforsix-hadbuiltourentirelifearoundthecommonexpectationthat,afterpassingthedodderingoldageofthirty,Iwouldwanttosettledownandhavechildren.

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