By the time he came home, she was frantic and Michael was drunk. “You don’t own me” was all he offered by way of explanation, and from there, the argument went downhill fast. They said terrible things in the heart of the moment. Sarah regretted all of them later that night; Michael was apologetic. But after that, Michael seemed more distant, more reserved. When she pressed him, he denied that he felt any differently toward her. “It’ll be okay,” he said, “we’ll get through this.”

Instead, things between them grew steadily worse. With every passing month, the arguments became more frequent, the distance more pronounced. One night, when she suggested again that they could always adopt, Michael simply waved off the suggestion: “My parents won’t accept that.”

Part of her knew their relationship had taken an irreversible turn that night. It wasn’t his words that gave it away, nor was it the fact that he seemed to be taking his parents’ side. It was the look on his face-the one that let her know he suddenly seemed to regard the problem as hers, not theirs. Less than a week later, she found Michael sitting in the dining room, a glass of bourbon at his side. From the unfocused look in his eyes, she knew it wasn’t the first one he’d had. He wanted a divorce, he began; he was sure she understood. By the time he was finished, Sarah found herself unable to say anything in response, nor did she want to.

The marriage was over. It had lasted less than three years. Sarah was twenty-seven years old.

The next twelve months were a blur. Everyone wanted to know what had gone wrong; other than her family, Sarah told no one. “It just didn’t work out” was all she would say whenever someone asked.

Because she didn’t know what else to do, Sarah continued to teach. She also spent two hours a week talking to a wonderful counselor, Sylvia. When Sylvia recommended a support group, Sarah went to a few of the meetings.