My work.
My money.
My choices.
One afternoon, while grading essays, I noticed the pale mark where my wedding ring used to sit had finally disappeared.
I thought about the ring beside Ryan’s beer that night.
The laughter.
The bartender looking away.
Ryan telling me not to make a scene.
And Tyler’s midnight call.
I used to wish I had never walked into that bar at the exact moment Ryan was speaking.
Eventually I understood that hearing him had not destroyed my marriage.
It had destroyed my ability to keep lying to myself about it.
Ryan had spent seven years telling me we were not on the same level.
In the end, that was the one thing he said that turned out to be true.
I had simply stopped letting him decide what the levels meant.
