We broke up a few weeks before my 30th birthday. This will be poetic someday, I assured myself.
There were several ways to tell the story: our different desires (kids), our recent difficulties (nonmongamy), or the crisis in his mental health.
At first I took to saying that “he didn’t break up with me, his depression did.” In reality, I was constantly rewriting the narrative, trying to construct one I could accept.
Spoiler alert: They were all unsatisfying. Because no matter what I came up with, the ending never changed.