My 9/11 memory starts with someone knocking on the bedroom door and the words more Americans heard than any other that morning.

“Turn on the TV.” 

Together, Jennifer and I watched it. The clock ticked by.

“You’re going to be late for work,” she told me.

“I’m not going,” I said.

An argument began. A cold, quiet argument. No screaming. Nothing like that. 

Cold and quiet.

After she insisted, I drove. The freeways were empty. I got to work in record time, driving across an empty Los Angeles, feeling a bit like Robert Neville. I thought of him as I drove and listened to the neverending news reports.

When I got to work, a sign on the door informed me the place was closed. I drove home.

She was there when I got there and we didn’t say anything to each other for the rest of the day.

For me, 9/11 is more than just a public memory of public tragedy. It’s also a private memory. It was the first day I knew our marriage was over.