Two weeks ago I warned you I was starting something you might not enjoy reading, and promised to give an “all clear” when it was over.
This is it. If you read along with me, you’re all caught up; if you skipped, it’s safe to come out now.
For those who made the journey, I’m sorry it didn’t have a more satisfactory ending. Believe me, I wish it all could have ended with my father here in my city with all the lovely oxygen and humidity, growing stronger every day and building a new relationship with the daughter he spent decades discarding and disregarding.
But, as I warned you in the beginning, this was not a work of fiction; Real Writers write lovely novels with satisfying endings—I can recommend a few, if you’re feeling emotionally battered.
For those who skipped this bit, I can’t promise you won’t see anything about it in the weeks to come: it’s all still very raw around here, and Husband and I are dealing with shit the way we do: by talking, constantly, and by making jokes about it when we can. So if you run across an unfamiliar reference or character, there will be a link and you will have a choice to make. Fortunately, all of the dire stuff is titled by Chapter, so if the link reads, Chapter #### when you hover over it, you know what you’re getting in to.
We will now enjoy a brief recess while I come up with something fun and silly to get us back on track.
And possibly reconsider my stance on day drinking alone.