Not Jesse.
Never Jesse.
By the time I was 35, I had built a life that looked stable from a distance.
I worked in pharmaceutical sales. I traveled too much. I had an apartment in Philadelphia with good light and too many plants because I was rarely home enough to keep a pet.
People called me independent.
They did not know independence had first been forced on me by a missing brother and two grieving parents who had no grief left to spare for the child who remained.
That spring, I flew to Seattle for a three-day medical conference.
It was an ordinary Tuesday morning.
That is the part I still struggle with.
Life-changing moments should announce themselves somehow. The sky should darken. Glass should crack. The air should warn you.
