I'm sitting in the backyard the other night and it's late, past midnight, the house is dark and the full moon is one bright spot in the clouds. Crickets chirping and quiet all around them. The little white garden shed my girls have claimed as their one-room school house for playing "Mary and Laura" complete with bonnets and petticoats — lots of Little House going on at my house these days — and it hits me, I'm okay.

I'm okay.

More than that. I love my little house and my beautiful yard and I'm comfortable being here as a family of four again.

I keep searching for the reasons I shouldn't be. I don't know if the reasons I seek are for me or for everyone else. Not that anyone wants me to be miserable.

The thing is, I'm always feeling a little guilty about rebuilding my marriage, like somehow I betrayed everyone who stood by me while I pulled myself together and ripped my life apart a couple years ago.

My girlfriends heard the details, moment by excruciating moment, for three years before I left and they pooled their resources to help me when I finally arrived at that place where leaving is the only option.

They got me out. There was no leaving, would have been no leaving, without them.

So here I am again, back in. My friends are supportive and I am mostly happy.       

But, even now while Sam and I are in good grove and our biggest issues are temporarily dormant, I can't quit looking for what should be wrong.

After all these years, I'm not sure I know how to be okay with being okay.