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Hadn
’
t
I
wanted
this
nice
house
?
Hadn
’
t
I
loved
it
?
So
why
was
I
haunting
its
halls
every
night
now
,
howling
like
Medea
?
Wasn
’
t
I
proud
of
all
we
’
d
accumulated
-
the
prestigious
home
in
the
Hudson
Valley
,
the
apartment
in
Manhattan
,
the
eight
phone
lines
,
the
friends
and
the
picnics
and
the
parties
,
the
weekends
spent
roaming
the
aisles
of
some
box
-
shaped
superstore
of
our
choice
,
buying
ever
more
appliances
on
credit
?
I
had
actively
participated
in
every
moment
of
the
creation
of
this
life
-
so
why
did
I
feel
like
none
of
it
resembled
me
?
Why
did
I
feel
so
overwhelmed
with
duty
,
tired
of
being
the
primary
breadwinner
and
the
housekeeper
and
the
social
coordinator
and
the
dog
-
walker
and
the
wife
and
the
soon
-
to
-
be
mother
,
and
-
somewhere
in
my
stolen
moments
-
a
writer
…
?
I
don
’
t
want
to
be
married
anymore
.
My
husband
was
sleeping
in
the
other
room
,
in
our
bed
.
I
equal
parts
loved
him
and
could
not
stand
him
.
I
couldn
’
t
wake
him
to
share
in
my
distress
-
what
would
be
the
point
?
He
’
d
already
been
watching
me
fall
apart
for
months
now
,
watching
me
behave
like
a
madwoman
(
we
both
agreed
on
that
word
)
,
and
I
only
exhausted
him
.
We
both
knew
there
was
something
wrong
with
me
,
and
he
’
d
been
losing
patience
with
it
.
We
’
d
been
fighting
and
crying
,
and
we
were
weary
in
that
way
that
only
a
couple
whose
marriage
is
collapsing
can
be
weary
.
We
had
the
eyes
of
refugees
.
The
many
reasons
I
didn
’
t
want
to
be
this
man
’
s
wife
anymore
are
too
personal
and
too
sad
to
share
here
.
Much
of
it
had
to
do
with
my
problems
,
but
a
good
portion
of
our
troubles
were
related
to
his
issues
,
as
well
That
’
s
only
natural
;
there
are
always
two
figures
in
a
marriage
,
after
all
-
two
votes
,
two
opinions
,
two
conflicting
sets
of
decisions
,
desires
and
limitations
.
But
I
don
’
t
think
it
’
s
appropriate
for
me
to
discuss
his
issues
in
my
book
.
Nor
would
I
ask
anyone
to
believe
that
I
am
capable
of
reporting
an
unbiased
version
of
our
story
,
and
therefore
the
chronicle
of
our
marriage
’
s
failure
will
remain
untold
here
.
I
also
will
not
discuss
here
all
the
reasons
why
I
did
still
want
to
be
his
wife
,
or
all
his
wonderfulness
,
or
why
I
loved
him
and
why
I
had
married
him
and
why
I
was
unable
to
imagine
life
without
him
.
I
won
’
t
open
any
of
that
.
Let
it
be
sufficient
to
say
that
,
on
this
night
,
he
was
still
my
lighthouse
and
my
albatross
in
equal
measure
.
The
only
thing
more
unthinkable
than
leaving
was
staying
;
the
only
thing
more
impossible
than
staying
was
leaving
.
I
didn
’
t
want
to
destroy
anything
or
anybody
.
I
just
wanted
to
slip
quietly
out
the
back
door
,
without
causing
any
fuss
or
consequences
,
and
then
not
stop
running
until
I
reached
Greenland
.
This
part
of
my
story
is
not
a
happy
one
,
I
know
.
But
I
share
it
here
because
something
was
about
to
occur
on
that
bathroom
floor
that
would
change
forever
the
progression
of
my
life
-
almost
like
one
of
those
crazy
astronomical
super
-
events
when
a
planet
flips
over
in
outer
space
for
no
reason
whatsoever
,
and
its
molten
core
shifts
,
relocating
its
poles
and
altering
its
shape
radically
,
such
that
the
whole
mass
of
the
planet
suddenly
becomes
oblong
instead
of
spherical
.
Something
like
that
.
What
happened
was
that
I
started
to
pray
.
You
know
-
like
,
to
God
.
Now
,
this
was
a
first
for
me
.
And
since
this
is
the
first
time
I
have
introduced
that
loaded
word
-
GOD
-
into
my
book
,
and
since
this
is
a
word
which
will
appear
many
times
again
throughout
these
pages
,
it
seems
only
fair
that
I
pause
here
for
a
moment
to
explain
exactly
what
I
mean
when
I
say
that
word
,
just
so
people
can
decide
right
away
how
offended
they
need
to
get
.
Saving
for
later
the
argument
about
whether
God
exists
at
all
(
no
-
here
’
s
a
better
idea
:
let
’
s
skip
that
argument
completely
)
,
let
me
first
explain
why
I
use
the
word
God
,
when
I
could
just
as
easily
use
the
words
Jehovah
,
Allah
,
Shiva
,
Brahma
,
Vishnu
or
Zeus
.
Alternatively
,
I
could
call
God
"
That
,
"
which
is
how
the
ancient
Sanskrit
scriptures
say
it
,
and
which
I
think
comes
close
to
the
all
-
inclusive
and
unspeakable
entity
I
have
sometimes
experienced
.
But
that
"
That
"
feels
impersonal
to
me
-
a
thing
,
not
a
being
-
and
I
myself
cannot
pray
to
a
That
.
I
need
a
proper
name
,
in
order
to
fully
sense
a
personal
attendance
.
For
this
same
reason
,
when
I
pray
,
I
do
not
address
my
prayers
to
The
Universe
,
The
Great
Void
,
The
Force
,
The
Supreme
Self
,
The
Whole
,
The
Creator
,
The
Light
,
The
Higher
Power
,
or
even
the
most
poetic
manifestation
of
God
’
s
name
,
taken
,
I
believe
,
from
the
Gnostic
gospels
:
"
The
Shadow
of
the
Turning
.
"
