I've bought the bridal magazines and signed up for a screen name on TheKnot.com. We've chosen a caterer, a band and our siblings as our bridal party. As the months inch along toward the big day, my stomach gets tighter and tighter. This time, I search for the words to tell him that all I can think about is my escape plan, that all I want to do is get in my car and drive away.

My best friend thinks that I am consumed by worry that my parents won't behave on my big day. I think it's my fear that something that is so unknown to me will turn into something familiar. I love his big blue eyes too much to see them filled with scorn and hatred. I can almost hear my parents' words coming out of our mouths -- followed by the screaming, the slammed doors, the tires screeching. Then the cold affection, forced for the children's benefit, and the tension, ever present, that comes from never knowing what will set the other person off next.

Three times over I've felt the betrayal and watched as pain takes over and combat, venom and numbness become the new reality. The next 113 days are supposed to be my countdown to happiness. And after the priest says the magic words, I'm supposed to crumple up my escape plan and throw it in the wastebasket. I think I'll still be waiting for happily ever after.

Then I look into his big blue eyes and see the hope, the excitement he holds. He believes that togetherness can be a beautiful thing. He reminds me that our togetherness -- painting our new house, eating pizza in bed by candlelight, always ordering dessert -- already is a beautiful thing. Sometimes I think maybe he has enough hope for the two of us. And then there are the times I think that maybe, somewhere deep down inside, I have a little bit of hope too.

-- Emilie Karrick

Of loving, living and letting go

He was the first boy to ever ask me out. I was nearly 17. We ate tacos at La Cocina Restaurant, then sat in the car at the edge of town to watch the lights of the city glow in the distance. After that he would sit in his pickup truck, across the street from my high school, waiting to give me rides home. I had his undivided attention. He was a big man, and I used his size as a measure of his character -- strong, confident, independent. I said, "I love you" back, because I thought I did. My parents, preoccupied with the agony of their divorce, barely noticed I was on a crash course with the altar. A month before I turned 18 we wed.

I remember the next 20 years in five-year increments. The first five we played house. I was a bank teller; he was a carpenter. We struggled with money, sex and in-laws like the experts told us we would, but for the most part we got along.

The second five years I was pregnant. We planned the first baby. The second was a surprise. The third came 19 months later, and by the time the fourth one showed up we were certifiably overwhelmed.

I remember his jealousy. He hated having to share me. I resented his neediness. I lived with a baby on one breast and him on the other. They leached my energy and spirit, but I thought that was the way life was supposed to be. I was determined to keep the marriage together, no matter how hollow, sleepless or desperate it became. I parceled out pieces of my soul to my husband and my children, until I no longer recognized the woman in the mirror.

The third five years I fell apart. Once everyone was weaned and potty-trained I began to find myself interested in things that had nothing to do with babies or husbands. I started to read -- something I hadn't done since I was a newlywed. I discovered how much I enjoyed it. Then I began to write. Seeing the language coming from my fingertips prickled something in my chest. A timid flame flickered. I kept it to myself. One day I asked permission to take a writing class. "What do you want to do that for?" he said. "It sounds interesting," I told him. "I suppose," was his skeptical response.

One writing class led to another that led to another. Now, my attention was diverted away from the home completely. The kids didn't seem to mind, because they sensed the joy I felt from learning. He, on the other hand, grew jealous and suspicious. He accused me of seeing someone else. He accused me of abandoning him. He accused me of forsaking my children. I kept writing.

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