I’m dreading it—the loveseat, the coffee table with the garage sale table runner down the center, the candle in the middle that has never been lit. Odd children’s toys, special children’s toys, perch in the corner whispering tales of past lives that have also seen these four walls. A desk, busy with paper but neatly cluttered, sits crammed against the large semi-tinted windows. The view rivals Communist Russia.

But then there’s her face, so sweet and pretty. I saw the single ring. Mr. Levine did too. This one comes upon recommendation, not like the last one. Can a person that is not married really help? I’m so sick to death of women with those I’m-so-sorry-to-hear-that-but-it-would-never-happen-to-me eyes. I had those eyes once.

I’m past the point of denying that we need help. We could make it now, of course we could, but it just seems that we could so easily hit the same pitfalls later. We dreamed of moving to Southeast Asia but decided to stay and go to therapy instead.

I hate her room. I hate that we have to be there. I hate that my happily ever after includes therapy. It makes me want to scream. We were perfect. We were so in love that others were terminally jealous. We were happy. My husband says this is why we need it. He felt crushed under my Happily Ever After.

But perfect is safe against …

Isn’t it? Nope. Secret Nine, Revealed.