This story is from my book, Seven Princesses, where I write about falling in love with all the fresh, shiny optimism that attaches to a teenaged romance. I grew up being a bit feisty, I suppose you could say, a bit of a tom-boy. I never would have guessed that I would turn into “the woman who stayed.” After my divorce, my girlfriends and I would talk about “non-negotiable” criteria over coffee and cake, while in my bones, all I wanted was a man who’d make me feel safe. I was ashamed to say it out loud, like doing so would “mark me” in some indelible way. I suppose I have been marked, though. There’s nothing I can do to change that anymore. I like to tell other women, “your scars are proof of your resilience.” Why is it so hard to convince myself, then? That the way I cringe when a man yells too loud, the way I flinch when he gets too close to my face, the way I hide how hungry I am for safety—that these are not things that make me weak, but things that prove I’ve survived? I asked...