Nearing midnight, I would drive with the windows down, needing the din of the wind to quell my anxiety. To ground my giddiness, I would count lampposts and stare at the highway’s gray tar as if it were all that was keeping my white Cabriolet from flying away with me inside, so weightless it all felt, so fast and out of control.

Back then, I thought a lot about flying, driving, bicycling off, escaping. Motherhood weighed on me. At times, I would look at Vanessa and Veronica, so small and helpless, and feel exhausted at the prospect of all the years of child raising still ahead. When he left, it struck me as proof that having them had kept me from being the kind of woman a man like him would stay for.

I was 28 and in love, not yet able to regret dressing up my children, hair freshly braided and tied with pressed, crisp ribbons, for a man who could not love them or me. I didn’t yet know enough to cringe when remembering how I had made them audition for the role of stepdaughters who would be no trouble at all, would allow him to still be himself, exciting and free.

All winter, spring and into the summer, we had auditioned, my girls and I, and when in August he drove away and out of our lives, I took to asking the nanny to work extra hours, to return after she had finished dinner with her family, just so I could drive from one exit of the 826 to another, in search of him.

On nights when I couldn’t find someone to look after my girls, I would sulk, alternating between saying no to everything and complaining about how tired I was. Tired of their fighting and their toys lying around. Saying no to going out for ice cream and no to a walk around the block so they could see other people walking the dogs I was too tired to let them have.