THE ATTIC HIDEAWAY was all Mark's idea. He meant to be helpful, and I admit he had good reason to be worried about me.

I couldn't seem to cope with the little things anymore — scrubbing jam off the kitchen counter for the millionth time, carrying decaying science projects out to the garbage, answering the constant questions from two teens and two grade-schoolers. Was I the only person in the house who knew where to find clean socks?

Self-help books told me to regroup — find time alone to feed my soul. But when I'd sit at the kitchen table with my journal, the children would fly toward me like metal filings to a magnet.

Mark had noticed how often I'd been snapping at the kids. More troubling than my short temper, a heavy fog had settled on me. It pressed down with growing weight and separated me from everyone else. I didn't have the energy to care anymore.

One day, in his typical determination to fix things, Mark pulled me toward our back hallway. "Susan, I have a plan."

He must not have heard my groan because he kept talking.

"I can build some pull-down stairs into the attic. We'll clean it up, and you can have a place to get away once in a while." Mark had the remodeling gleam in his eyes. He was a gladiator in that moment — about to charge into his favorite arena. All his projects resulted in eager whacking and pounding until walls or tiles surrendered to him. Then he'd shake his drill over his head and roar in victory.

His infectious energy teased a smile from me. "A space off-limits to the kids? Maybe you're right. I could leave my journal out and not find it doodled on with gel pens the next time I opened it."

I couldn't muster much faith that a hideaway would end my cranky outbursts or cure the malaise swallowing me. But Mark never met a problem that couldn't be solved by a trip to the hardware store. So I surrendered to a weekend of Sheetrock dust, noise, and a very enthusiastic husband.

Mark's weekend undertaking took a month to complete, which was a better time ratio than most of his projects. The Saturday he finished framing in the trapdoor, a hint of anticipation stirred in me. I climbed the new pull-down stairs and looked around. Mark had nailed plywood over the insulation and wired a light bulb with a dangling chain. He had salvaged an over-stuffed chair from our basement and squished it through the opening. It sat in a pool of light under the dusty rafters, and a small table next to it completed the inviting refuge. A faint golden glow fought its way through the dirty windows on either end of the long attic, casting shadows on storage boxes and remnants of past remodeling projects.

A flicker of hope ignited in my tired heart. This was a place where I could find my way back from the dark vortex that was draining my joy. I backed down the steps.

Mark grinned at me, waiting for my response. Sawdust stuck in clumps to his flannel shirt and wavy blond hair. Band-Aids covered several of his fingers. Tools of every shape and size filled the hallway.

The flicker in my chest kindled to a warm glow. "Thank you." I hugged him with a bit of desperation. "It means a lot that you wanted to do this for me."

He squeezed back.

"Hey, Dad. This is cool. Can I see?" Jon ran past us and scampered up the narrow treads.

Mark released me, grabbed our nine-year-old, and swung him away from the steps. "Wait a minute. We're going to have a family meeting." Words to inspire terror in our children.

A few minutes later, Mark had chased the kids off the phone, away from the computer, and into the living room. Even with our bare wood floor and sparse furniture, our small living room felt crowded with all six of us, especially because the kids got bigger every time I blinked.

As usual, my two teens fidgeted on the couch. "Mom, I have to be at Amanda's house in fifteen minutes." Karen checked her watch.

She slept in until one, and now she was in a hurry?

"Is this going to take long?" Jake's lanky frame sprawled over the arms of the couch. He cracked his knuckles and yawned.

I clenched my teeth and smiled. "As long as it takes."

"Jon took the good pillow!" Seven-year-old Anne pulled it out from under his perch on the floor.

He crashed backwards and pulled the piano bench down with him. "Did you see that?" Jon yelled.

Mark took the pillow away from both of them and cleared his throat. "Your mom's been stressed out lately, so I built her a space where she can be alone. But we need to have some rules." He smiled at me with the post-construction glow in his cheeks.

I let my heart melt for a second. Rugged lines, warm smile, gentle and honest as the day is long, Mark was no longer the lean, melancholy youth I met in college. Marriage had agreed with him.

"Ouch!" Anne slammed her Barbie to the floor. "Jon poked me. Tell him to stop poking me."

Mark grabbed Jon's shoulders and slid him along the floor several yards.

Jake used the distraction to fiddle with his keys. "I'm gonna be late for work. Can't you have this meeting after I leave?"

"No!" I took a deep breath. "My new room is off-limits. No one is allowed up there. If an emergency happens, you can call through the door for me, but you can't come up. And no interrupting me unless it's a real emergency. Like someone bleeding. A lot."

"We got it." Jake slouched to his feet. "No blood, no interruptions. No problem. Gotta go."

The kids scattered, and Mark looked at me with a slightly bewildered expression.

Affection made my lips twitch. He could manage complex projects at work and oversee a large staff, but family meetings always left him dazed and confused. No wonder my own little neurons were drooping from the effort to keep up with the dizzying pace of our family life. That was probably why I was listless these days. I moved into the circle of Mark's arms. Our marriage was my biggest motivation to fight off this lethargy. The cloud was pulling me away from him, and that terrified me.

I felt a tug at my sweater.

"Mommy, don't you like us anymore?" Anne's face tilted up at me.

Ouch. Might as well wear a scarlet W on my shirt, for World's Worst Mom. "Sweetie, I love you all to pieces. But you know how sometimes you need a time-out when you get crabby? I need a place to have a time-out sometimes."

That must have made sense to Anne; she giggled and ran off.

If only my guilt would run off with her. I had a great family, a cozy home, and everything any sane person could wish for. I used to thrive on the delightful chaos of family life. Yet for months, the grey fog had grown thicker. My first thoughts in the morning centered on how soon I could get everyone off to school so I could go back to bed. I forced myself through laundry and car pools and uninspired suppers. With every reason to be happy, I wasn't, and that left me with piercing shame.

Since Mark was home to run interference, it seemed like the perfect time to initiate my new retreat. I grabbed my Bible and journal and climbed the ladder into the attic, determined to dig out the spiritual secrets that would snap me out of this.

Decades of dust raised a wet wool smell from the eaves, and beams threatened to crack my skull if I straightened up in the wrong place. But in my imagination, I was at a luxurious retreat center instead of a cramped attic. I curled up in my upholstered chair to read...