Thinking back now on that summer, I recognize I started walking to practice being without Mark. I’d go out for only an hour, take in a few hills, look over the city and tell myself Washington was flat, really flat. I convinced myself interesting topography was essential to my sanity. Maybe it was. I’d return to find Mark reading the newspaper on the couch beneath his favorite poster of John Reed shaking hands with Emma Goldman. I’d look at his small frown of concentration as he read, and I’d tell myself I was lucky to be attached to someone so attractive, so intelligent, so passionate about justice and fairness. Then I’d say something like, “Why did we get married if we can’t even agree on where to live? ”

“Sara, Sara, Sara,” he’d say and read on just a little further which always irritated me. I was important enough to stop mid-sentence for. Then Mark would sigh, put the paper down, and I’d forlornly curl up next to him on the couch. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, I told myself. Once you were married, things were supposed to be settled and decided, not in constant turmoil about whose needs took precedence, the negotiations forever ongoing.

No doubt it was much easier in the past when the wife followed her husband wherever he went or waited when she was told to, no questions asked, but I knew compliance of that sort would be more unacceptable than my insecurity. And my insecurity was intense—perhaps even unreasonable—though I suppose having your husband decide to live on the other side of the continent is adequate cause for anxiety. Over the millennium of time, men have gone hunting, gone exploring, gone to war. At least graduate school seemed a relatively safe activity. Clearly Mark was going on a journey he needed. It took me much longer to realize I’d set off on a journey of my own.