On a spring day seven years ago I was driving across Coney Island Avenue in Brooklyn feeling unusually right with the world. I felt peaceful and uplifted because I had, a few days before, settled in my mind a difficult, painful question: I would eventually leave my husband. We had children in grade school; I was scared of everything; I didn’t know how or when. But after years of tortured thinking on the subject, I had given myself permission to do it. I can still see the sunny day, my beat-up car, and the avenue. And then came something inexplicable and much more intense: a rush of elation, warmth, and contentment.
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