So much of how we see the world is the matter of interpretation. A matter of wishing and hoping rather than really deep-down believing.

I think of how each person in a marriage owes it to the other to find individual happiness, even in a shared life. That this is the only way to grow together, instead of apart.

My life is very unglamorous, ... I have twin sons, they're 20 months old, they run me into the ground. I write in my sweats. It's a very simple life. There'd be no reason for me to be a diva. That's funny.

After all, I think, isn't it always about a boy?

Maybe that's what it all comes down to. Love, not as a surge of passion, but as a choice to commit to something, someone, no matter what obstacles or temptations stand in the way. And maybe making that choice, again and again, day in and day out, year after year, says more about love than never having a choice to make at all.

I've always been intrigued by the power of secrets. When is it justifiable to keep them from the ones we love? And does keeping them irrevocably change who we are?