My social life consisted of deep conversations with my dog, phone therapy sessions with our former marriage counselor, $75-per-hour phone calls with my divorce lawyer, and the occasional interaction with other humans who lived at the house. Who, I might add, had to talk to me because we’re related. I hadn’t even gotten together with my friends who lived in Minneapolis. It just took too much life.

So when Dad invited me to go to a concert with him and two of my brothers that Thursday night, I kindly refused. A concert? On a school night? Anyone who’s experienced depression can speak to its uncanny ability to make supposedly fun things sound like utter hell.

Nevertheless, on Thursday afternoon, I found myself riding in a pickup truck, bound for Rochester, MN, to see Bob Dylan play at a minor league ballpark. The concert posse included Dad, my brothers Andy and Skipp, and their friend who everyone calls Buckshot.

The guys had been planning this trip for months, even getting hotel rooms in Rochester so everyone could indulge in overpriced, shitty beer to their heart’s content. Why, in God’s name, had I let these people talk me into this? They were all about fun; I was all about lolling around in pajamas, bemoaning my ruined, pathetic life.

In hindsight, I realize why Dad and the boys forced me to go along. People show their love and concern in all manner of ways. Some people bake brownies. Others buy expensive gifts or send thoughtful cards. The men in my family get you drunk.

Fast forward to about 9 p.m., and all was right in my world. I sat in the outfield grass, barefoot and surrounded by plastic cups of beer and jovial kinsmen. As I gulped down the last few drops of boozy goodness, a brother would appear with a fresh supply. Bob was delivering a stellar show, and the energy was magical. A full moon lit up the smiling faces of fans who swayed in the warm summer air.

Bob played an encore, and I wanted the music to continue forever. Maybe I would just sleep on the well-groomed grass for a couple of years. No one would need to know. The band started to pack up, and the fans scattered. I was distraught. No, no—the fun must go on!

I convinced Dad that we should try to catch a glimpse of Bob backstage. We bumbled through the backyards of the unfortunate souls who lived next to Mayo Field. Sadly, an orange snow fence stood between us and the tour bus, and my quest met a strong dose of reality.

Not as strong, however, as the dose that greeted me on Friday morning when I rose early to get back for work. Because there’s nothing like more grease and salt to soothe your hungover soul, Dad and I hit the McDonald’s drive-thru. Riding shotgun in the pickup, I munched on my egg and cheese muffin and thought about the previous night’s shenanigans. I remembered nursing the never-ending beer, searching for Bob Dylan, and eating late-night pizza. Blech.

A few miles up the road, I declared an emergency. Dad pulled over, and I stumbled through the weeds and prairie grass. I retched in the ditch along Highway 52, picked myself up, and climbed back into the truck. I was OK! In fact, I was more than OK. By dragging me along to the show, the men in my life had opened my (now rather bloodshot) eyes: My life was far from over. There would be more fun. There would be more smiles. There might even be more love.

Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any more beer for a good, long while.

Sandwiched between Mom and Dad in a pew, I felt the weight of everything that had happened in the two weeks since I left John. Our uncontested divorce would be final within a month, and John had come to see our split as an unexpected opportunity to reinvent himself. The jarring reality of my departure inspired him act on his dream of moving to the mountains. I hoped that he would find what he was looking for.

I also ruminated on the messages I received from John’s mom and step-mom. While they absolutely loved their son, flaws and all, they were able to transcend their mama-bear instincts to reach out to me. The e-mails that we exchanged that week were “goodbye,” but I’ll always be grateful to them for allowing me the dignity of being the woman who did what she needed to do.

I shared signs of peace with my fellow congregants—peace be with you—and hugged my parents. And as the organ and the voices built around me, my heart swelled with regret. This beautiful chapel was like the scene of a crime—I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad had happened here. I wept with my entire being, and the singers surrounding me provided a generous wall of privacy. As the last verse closed, I bolted from the chapel.

The quad was quiet and still. A single Adirondack chair was nestled in the grass, and it beckoned me to descend the chapel steps. I kicked off my shoes and sunk between the solid arms of the giant chair. Unaware of space or time, I curled into the fetal position and cried.

Mom climbed onto the chair’s arm and placed a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her through my tears. “It hurts so bad,” I wailed. As we sat in the shadow of the chapel, I knew that I’d never be the same woman who walked down that aisle. I could only hope that the new woman would find a way to channel this anguish and vulnerability into something of use or beauty.

Don’t get me wrong. I am incredibly grateful for the love sent my way. I am a lucky, lucky woman. And how the hell were people supposed to know what to say? But. Intent aside, some conversations left me feeling insecure, deflated, and just plain sad.

People were curious—hadn’t I seen any red flags before the wedding? Well, yes, but they were more pink than red, and when I thought about calling it all off, I couldn’t pick up any clear signals from heart nor brain. So I chose the path of least resistance. Throw in the fact that I’m a well-educated, feminist woman, and I don’t think I need to explain why the “red flag” question made me want to smack myself and the dear question-poser upside the head. Simultaneously.

Another comment that frequently accompanied a pat on the back was, “Thank God you didn’t have kids with him.” Very true. But the words made me wince. I longed to have kids. The feelings were real; the feelings ran deep. John and I had started “trying” (not to be confused with the more regimented “TRYING”) shortly after the wedding, but things weren’t quite right with me, and I was eventually diagnosed with a potential fertility challenge.

So, as a 29-year-old on the brink of divorce, I wondered: Would the pieces of the family puzzle ever fall into place for me? Feeling something shy of optimistic about love, I half-joked with my parents that I might go the sperm bank route someday. Mom just shook her head, and Dad balked at the idea of me paying for such a “procedure.” Trying to keep a straight face, he oh-so-generously offered to drop me off at the corner bar instead.