My father stood up at the lake house dinner and raised his glass in fr…

Six. I did not cry.

Seven. I am not going back.

I read it once.

Then I added number eight.

Eight. I left, and I became easier to find.

I did not mean found by my family. Not exactly. I meant found by myself. The self who had been buried under tasks, payments, reminders, centerpieces, folded napkins, rescued deposits, smoothed feelings, and careful silence.continue reading …