When Jane was 22, she dreamed of marriage the way poets dream of love, as something radiant, blissful, magical, certain, and everlasting. She pictured herself in a white dress, stepping into the glow of a bedecked altar, her beloved waiting, her future carved in joy.
Fifteen years later, sitting in her modest living room, she laughs softly, almost embarrassed by the memory. “Marriage isn’t what I thought it would be,” she says. “It’s a lot harder… and somehow quieter too.”