Not have fun. Not can we figure something out. Just the problem, placed on the table in front of me, for me to solve.
I didn’t go to the museum.
Two. In August of 2024 my back went out. Not badly — I’d lifted a bag of mulch wrong — but enough that I was flat for two days.
And on the third day I said I didn’t think I could do dinner that night.
And my son — my son Daniel, who is forty-four years old — sighed. Audibly. And said:
“Mom. We’re asking you to help with dinner. It’s not that much.”
Help with. As though the four nights a week had been me assisting somebody else with their task.
Three. In February of last year I bought myself a coat. A real one, a wool one, a hundred and forty dollars at a store at the mall, which is more than I have ever spent on a coat in my life.
