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Thirty minutes after a judge officially ended my marriage, I was in the back of a yellow taxi with my eight-year-old son, Noah, one suitcase between us and two one-way tickets to London tucked inside my coat. Manhattan blurred behind cold winter rain as we headed toward JFK, and I kept telling myself that leaving for a few weeks was the only way I could breathe again. Then Noah pressed his forehead against the window and asked the question I had been trying not to hear. “Mom, is Lily going to be okay?”