I met my husband in high school. He was my first love. We were in our final year, preparing for our university visits and talking about the future.

"We were wrong, too."

"You let me choose you over my parents," I told my husband, "without giving me all the information."

He flinched. "I didn't leave you..."

"Yes," I retorted. "You did it. You took away my choice."

My mother's voice softened. "We were wrong too. To have cut ties with you. To have not tried to contact you. We thought we were protecting you, but we were protecting our image. I'm sorry."

"I want you to leave."

I wasn't in the right frame of mind to listen to his apologies yet.

I placed the papers on the table. My hands were firm.

"I want you to leave," I told my husband.

His chin was trembling. "Where am I supposed to go?"

He was sobbing.

I laughed once, a dry laugh.

"That's what I had to understand at 17," I said. "I'm sure you'll be okay."

"Don't do that," he said. "We have a life. A child. Please."

"I had the right to know who I was choosing. You lied to me from day one. Everything that followed stemmed from that lie."

I went to our room and took out a suitcase.

This time, I was no longer a frightened teenager.

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