I suppose I should start where it all started. Or, more specifically, started ending. The night Chris told me he was done with our marriage. I was standing at the sink in the kitchen, washing salad greens, pushing my hands through the cold water in the salad spinner to shake the dirt loose. As I poured the water from the salad spinner down the drain, I was feeling grateful for everything I had in my life, but I couldn't ignore Chris's silence pressing against my back. I started to turn around from the sink, wanting to find a way to pull Chris back into the room. As he felt my eyes come to rest on him, he let out a slow, pointed exhale, and said, simple as pie, "I'm done." Then he sighed again. "I'm done with this," he said, gesturing with his hand to encompass our living room, our kitchen, our home, our son, our future, our dreams, every single memory we'd ever made together in our thirteen years as a couple, and me, suddenly meaningless me. Done, just like that. Book jacket.