My marriage to Michael ended quietly. There was no dramatic reconciliation, no emotional apology that suddenly repaired everything, and no conversation capable of returning us to the people we had been before. We had both contributed to the destruction of our relationship, but that did not make every decision equally forgivable. I could accept responsibility for my affair without accepting responsibility for what someone else had done to my body.
I began therapy and slowly learned to separate those two truths. Some days were difficult. I grieved the possibility of having children and the years I had spent believing I deserved the life I was living. I also had to accept that I could never recover the choices that had been taken away from me. But gradually, I stopped measuring my worth by my worst mistake. I started volunteering and speaking honestly about my experience, hoping others would understand how important informed medical consent really was.
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