In the summer before the final year of my MFA program, I hid in my parents’ basement while Caleb, Reed, and I were visiting, and, in a frenzy, I wrote the first draft of an essay titled “Like Mourners’ Bread.” It was a numbered essay about my sexual history, but it was about so much more than that. Ultimately, it was an essay about forgiveness.
The man I married slept with other women when we were dating. He didn’t call me for weeks at a time. He showed up at my apartment drunk after the bar closed, acting as though he wanted to see me, but really just wanting a place to sleep. He lied to me many times. About many things.
I didn’t hurt then, because I didn’t want to know what was happening. His friends tried to warn me. My friends tried to warn me. Strangers…
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