I’m no marriage expert, but I can offer this one observation: if your spouse instructs you to “act more like June Cleaver,” your relationship is probably doomed.
At least, that was my experience.
Eight years ago, and looking more like a frightened schoolgirl than a midcentury housewife, I watched as my husband slipped through a pair of sliding glass doors and into a poorly lit parking lot.
I never saw him again.