Emma
November blew in. The air turned crisper, the last golden leaves barely clinging to branches as the wind wiped down the sidewalk. The mornings were chilly now, the kind that made it tempting to linger in bed a little longer, though Jack’s surgery schedule and Sophie’s childhood energy never allowed for that. As much as I hated to admit it, I was getting attached to our little morning routine: sleepy greetings, warm cups of coffee pressed into my hands by Jack when I pattered into the kitchen, and the sound of Sophie’s voice chattering away about whatever had captured her imagination that day.
At school drop-off not long after Halloween, I found myself pulled into a conversation before I could make a quick exit. Liz, ever the whirlwind of school volunteerism, practically pounced the
