day, I was a mother making pancakes, buying science-fair supplies, and learning how to be the only parent of two boys instead of three children.
At night, I was the woman with the pencil.
I did not write to publish.
I want that clear.
I wrote to breathe.
The pages stacked up on my kitchen table.
Slowly, without asking me, they began to take a shape.
If you have lost somebody and the words feel trapped behind your teeth, let me tell you what Angela told me.
Write one true
