This is the story I haven't told. I've told parts of it, but not the most important part, which was the moment I leaned my head against the window of the car and let trust slip out of my loosened fist.

I was thirty one, and my baby was two months old. We, my new husband and I, had been in Sacramento visiting his family, and we had the most wonderful, happy, beautiful time together. He was the one; I was madly in love, and couldn't believe that after all the struggle and all the disappointment and bad choices, I could finally be so lucky. We had made love the night before, and it had been amazing. I was, for the first time in my life that I can remember being, happy. Not just situationally happy, experiencing joy in the moment, but truly, deeply content.

We were driving home, just starting the long drive North, and he said it. "You know, I've been thinking. I'd really like to open our marriage".

I don't think about it much. I'd rather not. But that was the moment I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would never trust anyone again. Not as a partner. My stomach turned cold and I leaned my head against the glass and let the tears drip silently off the end of my nose, as the road, like my happiness, unraveled underneath the car.

That's the story of why you never stood a chance.