My life, to any outside observer, was a picture-perfect suburban dream. I was thirty-four years old, a successful freelance graphic designer who worked from the bright, sunlit kitchen island of our beautiful four-bedroom colonial home. Mark, my husband of six years, was a charming, well-respected regional sales director for a medical supply company. He wore tailored suits, coached weekend little league games, and possessed an easy, booming laugh that made him the life of every neighborhood barbecue.
