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.