We were rational. But still, we cried.

In the early hours of a winter morning, in the master bedroom of our newly built townhouse in a blue-collar Maryland subdivision a world away from our charming German village row house and the comforts of a life well-insulated, my husband, in his Air Force flight uniform, tentatively asked, “Are you OK?”

The transition stateside had been unwelcome. I had hoped we might spend three more years abroad, giving our children more opportunity for travel, for language, for culture. I had hoped to leave Germany for a base in Japan. But after fifteen years in the military, he was weary and requested to be reassigned to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. It was his career, not mine. It was his decision, not mine. We did not discuss it.

What followed was a brutal summer of shuffling two kids and two dogs between base lodging and a La Quinta Inn as we searched tediously for a new foundation.

Perhaps I had grown increasingly sullen in the months since preparing to return to the other side of the ocean, neglecting him, neglecting our children. Perhaps I was entangled in my own emotional frenzy, conjecturing how to find my way back to a life I never lived.

He stood at a distance. I sat on the edge of our bed, considering his question. As I caught my breath, I looked up at him, and offered a sorrowful truth, slowly and prudently: “I think I want a divorce.” And then everything spilled out reactively — a good wife’s poised acceptance of a lost identity and a loveless marriage.

I don’t remember putting my children to bed, and I don’t know all that was said and felt as the devastation of our impending breakup filled the room. There was a quiet storm between us, a temperate demeanor steadying an undercurrent of rage and fear and uncertainty. And deep and painful sadness. We slept with our backs to one another. And we sobbed silently, each of us to ourselves. Perhaps because it felt very much like the end. Perhaps because we had done the best we could.