In my adolescence, acceptance conjured anxiety and strife. Regardless of my thoughts and feelings, I was told, “Just accept it,” or discouraged from questioning through the silent treatment.

Our house wasn’t an environment of nurturing conversations. Important topics of where I stayed while she worked nights, to what I ate, or who I was friends with were off-limits to negotiate.

My husband wrote me an email from his cubical viciously detailing years of resentment and his desire for a divorce.

I read the words as if they were a fictional story. Denial was my immediate defense.

I thought I could fix it and move on with our seemingly successful charade. And yet, he wouldn’t let me. He refused to speak to me or see me. He was done.