For a while, Andrea was able to be what Christine wanted her to be, but it proved to be too difficult. About a year after they started dating, and only months after they’d married—their courtship had been a whirlwind, as Andrea had thought that marriage would fix something inside her, prove to the world she was okay—things started to fall apart. After Christine came home from fashion shows and they were actually in the same city for long enough, Christine grew jaded. She was baffled by how miserable Andrea seemed—“like a freaking washrag,” she said. She also didn’t like that her new husband would disappear for hours at a time or sit in the bathroom with the door locked—Andrea would be in there either experimenting with makeup or crying in the bathtub, which Christine could probably hear.

Andrea tried to be a husband, she really did, but all too soon she knew it was a mistake, maybe she was a mistake. And they had arguments about sex; Christine was baffled as to why Andrea didn’t seem to want her like other men did. Which, of course, had made Andrea feel ashamed, and so she overcompensated, and then Christine wound up pregnant.

Andrea had always wanted a child, and for a while she thought, Yes. This will save me. This will save us. But Christine had other ideas. After all, kids weren’t something they discussed before marrying. She had a meltdown when she got the positive test, her reaction so vehement that Andrea had had torturous dreams that Christine was going to sneak off and have an abortion. Keeping the baby safe was all Andrea could think about for a while, even putting her own unhappiness aside. She bargained with the universe, saying that if only Christine kept the baby, Andrea would walk the straight and narrow. No more nonsense, as her mother might say.

Best laid plans, though. Christine did have the baby, and Arthur was wonderful, but after some time, Andrea was who she was, and Christine was who she was—a woman who still didn’t want a child. Christine resented the lack of freedom, the responsibility; she didn’t look at Arthur with the same sort of wonderment that Andrea did, which broke her heart. Christine was capable of love, Andrea thought, but she let her resentment and disappointment eclipse any maternal instinct.

An even bigger chasm formed between them, with Andrea doing most of the childcare duties and Christine . . . well, who knew where Christine went. Tabloids sometimes spotted her at various clubs and parties. There were whispers in gossip columns that she was fooling around with some ambassador from Egypt, and then a semi-famous artist, and then a punk musician. Andrea didn’t care. She was knee-deep in her own issues again, everything raging back. She’d decided to enter therapy. Dr. Westin was a specialist in gender issues, and she needed clarity.