The problem is, the decision is not two roads diverging in a yellow wood. It is two roads in the wood and a third you think you can see just out of the corner of your eye. It is a fourth dashing through the woods like a wolf. It is a fifth in the sky. It is a sixth in the ground.

The problem is, it is not just the two roads diverging for all time, all your life neatly splitting down irreversible destinies like the fission of an atom. It is a series of decisions — yes and yes and yes.

The problem is, he’s so understanding and enlightened. He’s not going to be one of those ogreish husbands of the past, the ones who would make you move to a new city that speaks a new language, where there is no hope for you to advance your career, to get out of the house. He wants the choice to be yours. He’s not going to be put in that position, no sirree. He wants to go. He wants you to want to go.

The problem is, still, the decision must be made. And if he is not going to make it, then it is up to you.

When I asked an employee at a hotel in Richmond, Virginia for directions to the Museum of the Confederacy, he gave me a strange look. “Are you sure you want to go there?” I understood the skepticism of this African American man in his smart bellman’s uniform. Black folks generally tend to stay away from memorials to the “Lost Cause.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Can you please tell me how to get there?” I said with appropriate southern politeness.

I was in Richmond attending an “African Americans and the Civil War” conference and researching for my new novel about people rebuilding their lives after the war. I took off for the museum on foot. As I walked, I could feel that tingle I get when I am about to do research. I would get a chance to see some muskets up close, some uniforms. For a historical novelist, a museum is the best opportunity to confirm accurate period details.

I strolled through the door, and it was as if I’d walked into another dimension. My palms began to sweat. My vision blurred. My stomach rolled. I stopped in my tracks, unable to move. What was wrong with me?

Ashley Ford’s previous columns for The Butter can be found here.

When Kel moved into our apartment, it wasn’t exactly legal. That is to say, he is not, nor has he ever been, on the lease for our apartment. He is, however, a fully functioning member of our household. He cleans, he cooks, he puts furniture together, and he knows more of the neighbors than I do. He has a place for his things—most of them on our largest bookshelf—and he has a place to lay his head (right next to mine). What he doesn’t have, almost seven months after moving from Seattle to Brooklyn, is a key to our apartment.

It started as an oversight. Mine, of course. Before Kel moved here, I wanted everything to be perfect. I got rid of clothes to make space for his (“Awww, babe…”), I bough Oreos for the pantry even though I despise Oreos (“AWWWW, BABE!”), and I wrote on the chalkboard next to my—*ahem* our—bedroom door “Welcome Home, Kelly!” What I did not do was actually clean the bedroom, make sure there was actual food in the refrigerator, or make him an actual key to his new home. As I said before, there were oversights. I never should have been the manager for the cohabitation project. I was unqualified.

For the first few weeks, having one set of keys was annoying, but fine. We were just so happy to be living in the same city, let alone the same apartment, that the key thing seemed minor. I was still working at BuzzFeed at the time, and I loved that Kel and I would meet up after work to attend some random event on the Island. It was easier to meet up in the city and hand off the key, or go somewhere together until it was time to make the commute back home. Not having a second set of keys meant we were always navigating one another’s schedules and commitments. We were constantly connected, both of us scared to death of leaving the other out in the cold. Literally.

If you were to look at me now and knew nothing of my history, you would never believe I’ve ever been overweight. You would assume that I have no intimate knowledge with the struggles many women experience trying to attain and keep their ideal weight. But my appearance is misleading.

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I’m on a diet. I’m always on a diet. I’ve spent a great deal of my life since the age of 14 on a diet. It hasn’t always been an effective diet, sometimes it was more an idea than an actual plan that I was implementing, but I can say there hasn’t been any time since adolescence that I was free from thinking I should be thinner or that I needed to be more vigilant to maintain the weight I had achieved.

People don’t know I’m on a diet because I don’t talk about it. I was brought up to never mention such matters, to keep struggles with my imperfections to myself. If my mother was alive and knew I was confiding my history to you, she’d haul me up short.