The illusion of a perfect life is remarkably sturdy until the precise moment it isn’t. It’s like a pane of tempered glass; it can take a hammering for years, but tap it in the wrong spot with the wrong amount of pressure, and the whole thing disintegrates into dust.
That tap came on a Tuesday.
I remember feeling an unusual, buoyant lightness as I left the office at 2:00 PM. The server farm at work had suffered a catastrophic failure, granting us all amnesty for the afternoon. The sky over Portland was a bruised purple, threatening rain, but I didn’t care. I had takeout from Siam Lotus—her favorite Pad Thai—steaming in the passenger seat. I was two years into a marriage with Sarah, and while we had our friction, I believed we were solid. I believed I was building a life on bedrock.
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