My wife and I split up two weeks ago, and sometimes I wish she had died instead of leaving. I still wouldn’t get to see her anymore, but my memories of every time she said “I love you,” “I just want to be with you,” and “We’ll get through all of this together” wouldn’t be tainted by the fact that, in the end, she left. I could build a temple to her in my mind, an image in eternity of the wife I loved and who loved me back and who would never decide she’s tired of fighting with us or pick someone else over me. Instead, I’m stuck with the image of her riding away in the back seat of her parents’ car, looking back at me with nothing more than wave goodbye and a concerned smile.