Six months ago, my father called my name from the other room and I felt my jaw clench before I stood up.
It was 6:14 AM. I know because I was staring at the clock on the microwave, calculating how many hours I had before I could be alone again.
I was forty-three, recently out of a business I'd spent fifteen years building. I'd left because something in me had been pulling toward something else. Then my father got diagnosed. And then I moved home.
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Every day felt like the same day.
