6. Stick a fork in me.

I am nothing if not a woman of occasional 180-degree turns.

After having yelled at my mother that morning for asking me if I was going to file for divorce, I was now realizing that she was asking the only question that there was left to ask.

I'd repeatedly asked D to stop talking to Sally. He had not, when he said he had; now, he flat-out wouldn't. I told him he could either stop talking to her, and work with me on our marriage, or not. He chose not to choose: he wouldn't answer me when I posed these kinds of questions.

And for my part, I was readying the lifeboats, but still desperately clinging to the idea that the ship wasn't really sinking. I was still terrified of being "divorced."

That afternoon, D and I were playing with Little One in her room, somewhat quietly. My proclamation came out of the blue, even to me.

Keeping my voice friendly and even, so Little One wouldn't be upset, I said calmly, "So, I think I'm done."

D looked up, confused. "Huh?"

I looked him in the eye and said, as if I was saying "nice weather, ain't it, hon?":
"I'm done. We should figure out how to separate. I'll help you find another place to live, and will get the divorce started."

There, I had said it out loud. I don't even remember his immediate reaction, other than saying something like "okay," simply because I was too shocked at what I'd just managed to finally come out and say. I was done. All of a sudden, just like that. I don't know at what point I had crossed the line from terror to reality, but I had, sitting on the floor of Little One's room on a lovely summer afternoon, politely stating what I wanted.

We put Little One down for a nap, and I walked downstairs and outside, holding a phone. I dialed my mother's number. I didn't dawdle.

"So, we're getting divorced," I said.

My mom took in a quick breath and paused. "Let me get your father on the line, too, honey," she said. And that's when I started to cry.