I woke up Friday morning back in my own bed with Helen beside me.
Downstairs, the coffee maker beeped, producing coffee like the world was normal.
I poured a cup and sat at the kitchen table. My laptop sat where I’d left it before New York — closed, surrounded by notes for chapters I couldn’t imagine writing now. I hadn’t answered Jennifer’s email.
Upstair…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to The Unread Shelf by Phillip Daigle to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.

