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When my daughter gets out of the car at the airport she vomits, pasta and strawberries plummeting undigested toward her shoes. I place my hand on her forehead; she feels warm; I turn to my husband and say, “Maybe we shouldn’t go tonight.” It’s just before Christmas, and my two children and I have tickets for a 9:00 p.m. flight from Los Angeles to New York. For several weeks my husband has vacillated strangely on the matter of whether he’s coming with us, even though in twelve years together we’ve never spent the holidays apart. When I say, “Maybe we shouldn’t go tonight,” he turns pale and scrubs his hand across his mouth, a gesture I recognize as a personal tell that he’s hiding something. I will later describe this as the moment my marriage ends, but in fact it ends roughly five minutes later when, holding my daughter’s hand and pushing my son in his stroller, their backpacks dangling from the crook of my arm, I walk into the terminal alone.
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