Her undulating tongue moved wet and slippery against my hand as her trunk pressed the unpeeled bananas into her mouth. I wore a blue canvas bag, laden with sugarcane and bananas, and I was surrounded by elephants.

It was my last day in Thailand after making the painful decision to abort my trip 10 days early. I was homesick and missing my 15-year-old daughter, Sophie, who was in Bangladesh with my soon-to-be ex-husband. It was our first summer holiday apart since the January night six months prior when he’d informed me that our 20-year marriage was over.

“My soul is deeply unhappy.”

He’d told me over a dinner of Costco salad.

“I want a divorce.”

Losing my marriage was difficult, his admitted infidelity was worse, and the summer away from my daughter was the hardest of all.

My husband and I had been fighting with an explosive vengeance as we unravelled our marriage, screaming things that couldn’t be taken back during late-night phone calls and hastily-typed texts featuring f-bombs and accusations. After every fight, I’d felt ashamed of the horrible things I’d said in response to the horrible things he’d said — loop after loop after loop. Six months earlier, he’d been my best friend, and I couldn’t reconcile how quickly we’d become enemies.

That morning, before visiting the elephants, my face had looked older than its 49 years. In makeup consisting of shadows and tear trails, I wore a mask of crepey, dehydrated skin. My hangover had nothing to do with beer and everything to do with a desolate night of crying myself dry in a cheap hotel room. Emotional pain this deep was corporeal. The fight had been a doozy that left me literally bruised, as I’d pounded my thighs with my fists at 2 a.m. after hanging up the phone for the last time.

I needed help. I shouldn’t be hitting myself, nor starving myself, though it was difficult to eat with the phantom golf ball that had lodged in my throat for the past six months. I’d lost 30 lbs. When I returned to New Jersey, I’d look for a therapist, I promised myself.

Today, though – my last in Chiang Mai – elephants. I’d chosen Elephant Nature Park because of its mission as a sanctuary and rehabilitation centre. There was no riding, no circus tricks, no prodding with hooks. Elephants were brought to ENP to live their best pachyderm lives, tromping through the verdant jungle and rolling in thick mud by the river. I’d done my research and felt confident these rescued elephants were well-cared-for and that I would not be contributing to the problem. I hoped I could put last night’s fight behind me and be present.

A minivan pulled up to the meeting place where I stood alone. Its door opened wide enough for me to feel the air conditioning drift out into the humid Southeast Asian summer air.

“VanderVeen?” The middle-aged man at the wheel asked, looking down his bifocals at the folded scrap of paper in his hand. He wore a white polo shirt with the ENP logo on his left breast.

“Yep,” I said, my voice sounding as scratchy as it felt.

A fierce, purple bruise, my souvenir from the previous night, seeped across my thigh as it scraped the fabric of the loose-fitting pants I’d bought for $1.50 at the Chiang Mai Night Market. I limped and winced as I made my way up the van’s stairs to an empty seat.

A head popped up from the row in front of me, and a friendly voice said, “Hi! We’re........

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