I SAT ON THE PORCH WITH MY COFFEE. I’d snuck outside, inching the sliding glass door open so as not to wake anyone. My husband, Anthony; daughters, Grace, 13, and Genevieve, 11; and son, Joseph, 6, were still asleep in the cabin we’d rented in the mountains near Asheville, North Carolina. The day before, we had driven 10 hours to get here, with Luna, our 75-pound Lab-bulldog mix, sitting on my lap, and Joseph telling endless knock-knock jokes.
Today was my fortieth birthday. And I needed to be alone.
Three years earlier, my mom had died right before my birthday, after an eight-month battle with malignant melanoma. I missed her with an ache that went through my bones, through every part of me. I didn’t want to celebrate. Was this…