I have become a fragile woman. Having had indulged in staring wistfully at other people’s children at the mall, I came home and crumpled into bed in tears because of a cracked smartphone screen. I wrote a list of issues that may warrant medical attention, like the brown itchy spots on my forearms and the rapidly declining bank balance that may signal hypomania. I brushed my hair, releasing the long strands from the sweaty clumps they’ve hung in for days. My husband will be home soon; I don’t want him to know I’m a wreck.

There has to be more than this, I sobbed to my therapist yesterday. She thinks I should leave Olympia, that there is nothing left here for me and Geoff. The weather has been lovely, but the luster has faded. My bathroom, where I bled out two dead babies. My bedroom, where we argued bitterly after losing Molly. And the bedroom that was supposed to be a nursery, three times over. I love this apartment but I do want to bounce. Pack it up: our vintage mid-century furniture, all the books and records, my bottles of medication, our sweet little cat. Just gtfo, don’t look back. I’m not sure I have the nerve.


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