The day I sat across from my wife Hannah at our small kitchen table and told her she wasn't my type anymore, I was convinced I was giving her a subtle cue. I thought she would gasp, grab my hand, ask me what was going wrong, and fight for us. I wanted her to press me, to dig beneath my cold words until she uncovered the suffocating darkness I had been carrying inside for months. Instead, Hannah placed her teacup quietly into its saucer. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She looked into my eyes with a calm, vacant expression, let out a soft breath, and simply said, "Okay." My name is Howard. We lived in a modest suburban home in California. To anyone watching from the outside, I had a decent life. I had a stable job as a middle-management accountant, a neat house with a tidy lawn, and a loving wife who took care of our home with gentle grace. But inside my head, something had gone horribly wrong. I was suffering from a deep, crippling depression, though I was to...
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