It was simply the first part of a much bigger plan that I was finally being allowed to see.
It was 10:14 on a Saturday morning.
I was barefoot in my sister Rachel’s kitchen in Louisville, holding a mug of hot coffee. Rachel was at the stove making pancakes, which she only does when she’s worried about me. She’d made pancakes three mornings in a row.
“You’re allowed to eat,” she said without turning around. “Divorced women are allowed to eat carbs. It’s in the paperwork.”
“I’m eating.”
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