The retreat center was a quiet, gender-separated place full of rules (no talking, eye contact, stimulants, exercise, reading or writing). I needed to go help myself so I could come back and help her infertility was too heavy to carry alone. She joked that someone whose passion was themselves should really know that person better.
I protested that I had already met all my demons. Instead, a last-minute place had opened at a 10-day, silent, Buddhist Vipassana retreat she had been bugging me to go on. It was happening again it couldn’t happen again.įortunately, she wasn’t kicking me out.
The same bag I had packed in my last two breakups. Then there was the Saturday I came home to find my bag out and partly packed in the hallway.
“I used to think that, too,” she said, but I heard only “I think so too.” Why would we go? Our only problem is infertility.” “I always thought I’d be good at it,” I said. “How about therapy?” she asked on the subway back from one of our countless fertility clinic appointments.
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