It was a perfect August day, and the Wolf River was clear and cool. The leaf canopy of spruce and cottonwood sparkled overhead, like shards of brilliant green glass backlit by intermittent bursts of sunlight.

Dave and I were trying out the twin red kayaks that his kids had given us the previous Christmas. Everyone agreed we had been working too hard, and the weight of a business we could no longer save was taking its toll.

I step outside to enjoy the storm’s reprieve from the scorching August day. Suddenly, a wall of rain advances like an army, the wind its battle cry. Phone in hand, I start to video the drama, but when whole trees hurtle past me like javelins, I run inside and cower in the basement. It’s brief—five minutes, maybe ten. Then, chirping birds signal the army’s retreat and I slink upstairs. The first thing I notice is water streaming down the interior walls under the closed windows, sobbing to release their fear.

Eight years ago, I sat across from my therapist in a puddle of tears, then heaving sobs. The despair that had been weighing me down for months had only escalated, leaving me frightened and inconsolable. “Do you think this has anything to do with Bobby?” my therapist asked. “Absolutely not,” I said, blowing my nose. “The relationship is perfect.”

t was summer 2013.  My middle school graduating class had just graduated. We were all happy, proud and glad to have graduated- it was now time for us to relax, enjoy summer and get ready to start our freshmen year.