There were still hard days.
I want to say that clearly, because the story of recovery is often told as a line that only goes upward and that is not what life is. There were mornings when I woke and lay beside Marcus and felt a residual grief that had no specific cause and no clear destination, just the shadow of the year when everything had been uncertain.
There were evenings when he said something in a tone that reminded me of the tone he used to use when he was managing me rather than talking to me, and I would go still and he would notice and we would have to navigate it carefully.
There was a night in September when he came home later than he had said and did not text and I sat in the kitchen with my hands flat on the table and talked myself through it methodically: this was not tha
