IZABEL
Sitting on a cliff high above the sea, Izabel looked at the passage she’d copied
in her journal the night before: words from Sue Monk Kidd’s The Dance of the Dissident
Daughter.
“The truth is, in order to heal, we need to tell our stories and have them witnessed
. . . Sometimes another woman’s story becomes a mirror that shows me a self I haven’t
seen before.”
Izabel stared out across the open water and wondered what wound it was that she needed
to heal. While she had seemed to return to a reasonably normal routine after the
period surrounding the Anderson baby’s arrival and her restless, dream-filled nights,
she couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was another story inside her begging
to be freed and witnessed. She wondered if it had to do with the “other woman” she
