I run about three blocks before I stop and let the heart-wrenching pain overtake me. I cry like I did the night he left me on the yacht, and I think I may die this time. If my lungs don’t self-implode, I think my heart might. The pain is unbearable and raw, and I’ve never willingly exposed myself to enduring it this way, except that night.

I sit on a bench cradling my head between my knees, and I think I may even throw up. This isn’t my life; my life is calm and effortless, and ...