Some mornings I wake up so sad. I go out, walk the dog, and the tears just come. As we wend our way around the apartment complex pond, she sniffs out animals hiding in the brush and I sniff away the snot and the salt, stinging my face in the winter wind.

I keep going over it and over it and over it. Where did we go wrong? What was the moment that set us on the path of destruction? I thought we were stronger. I thought we’d have fought to save the crumbling foundation. We both had loved the idea of marriage, if not our marriage. We certainly both loved our family, our girls. Why could we not keep it from falling apart? And then this deeply nagging question: Why wasn’t I good enough, special enough for him to want to keep me? Keep us?

That’s really the most painful realization. I wasn’t special enough. He, the golden child in his family, always the center, granted special treatment, the extra slice of chocolate cake. He was the special-est. But me, too. The youngest, the cutest, the good one, I was the special-est too. Maybe that’s it. There simply wasn’t room for us both. Reading that over now, it all makes perfect sense. But damn it’s painful, to be not-chosen. Not fought for. Not loved enough.

And the thing is, now that I love myself, accept myself, I can’t help but replay the tapes and, wonder, Jesus, if I had changed sooner would I still be there, drinking my coffee at the kitchen island on the cul-de-sac, instead of here?