“I think I've seen this film before; And I didn't like the ending; You're not my homeland anymore; So what am I defendin' now?”

Nearly nine years ago on a cold winter day, we sat in a booth at a newly-opened Mongolian barbecue restaurant near my hometown. It was a casual daytime date when he proposed to me from across the table. Not traditional marriage, but a home and life together. Speechless, I accepted. For years, he teased me about my reaction, my inability to speak. My stuttering and overwhelmed emotion.

Months later, we purchased our home – a small ranch in suburbia. We spent hours, after work, painting it from various shades of gray – which said he reminded him of a prison – to bright, fun colors. I called it Miami, convinced a blind man might regain his lost vision after being in the presence of it.

We decorated with furniture from his condo and pieces my dad had built; a dresser set my paternal great-grandmother purchased when she immigrated to New York from Vienna; and odds and ends from my mom and sister. The day after we moved our furniture in and randomly purchased an outdoor patio set, we hosted Easter brunch for a dozen people.

Weeks later, we ventured to the Galapagos, a trip a year in the making. When we returned, we adopted a six-month-old puppy who ran us through the ringer like a game of “Survivor.” We were losing, until we found our proverbial footing and I declared myself the Alpha Mama.

In the years to come, we traveled to the Mexican Riviera, North Myrtle Beach, British Isles, Paris, Thailand, New Orleans, Hawaii, Niagara Falls and Toronto, the Canadian Rockies, Yellowstone National Park, Tanzania, Kenya, Norway, and Disney World. We also camped and trekked to numerous locales for long weekends. We stayed home, too, and hosted parties. On winter days, we put an air mattress in the middle of the living room, he lit a fire in the fireplace and dictated our “scheduled lazy days” complete with movies. We devoured homemade chocolate chip cookies from the cast iron skillet.

I felt safe and loved.

He spoiled me with a sunrise balloon ride over the Serengeti in Tanzania; a multiple course dinner at Emma’s, a Michelin star-rated restaurant in Tromso, Norway. He treated me to Fleetwood Mac and Eagles concerts, among others.

Most importantly, we laughed. We spoke our own language and communicated telepathically. I never wanted to be without him. I enjoyed the simple daily life with him.

One day, he changed his mind about me. Without telling me.

The days and weeks that have followed are confusing. I volley between a deafening void, doubting the surrealism that faces me from every direction, and questioning the reality that I adored for eleven years.

I act on instinct: cancel the two-week Mediterranean Cruise scheduled to leave in August; change the locks; refinance the house and buy him out; seek counseling; eat. On second thought, never mind.

The house is not a home, but empty rooms that look like a college dorm in transition. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to process the betrayal, and yet, I don’t know how to stop loving him. I don’t know how to be … me.