Chapter 3
Mom would have let me continue living with her, but I was too old to sleep on the loveseat in my mother’s living room, so I’d found a one bedroom apartment I could afford. The bedroom might be compact, but the kitchen was huge, and I often played—it broke my heart to label it as experimenting—with new recipes there.
I looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall, and I frowned. Nine years had passed. I hated this day worse than any other throughout the year, even more than the day Dr. Griffin had more or less told me to suck up the loss of my intellect, and it seemed to roll around faster every year. I sighed and dressed for work. Hopefully, I’d get so wrapped up in cooking, I’d forget about it, and it would be a good evening.
