Tonight seems as good a night as any. I’ve been toying around with the idea for some time now, tossing it back and forth in my head like Tam and Georgie used to do with the football in the yard before everything splintered. My therapist is going on about the importance of journaling, of putting my thoughts down into some sort of tangible format. I nod my head and agree. I’m a good patient. I’m a hopeful patient. I say the mantras. I practice them in the mirror every morning and night. I go to group. I go on dates with handsome salt and pepper men and try to “get back into the swing of things.” I do everything that a grieving mother is supposed to do. I should feel different. I should feel better. But I don’t. Not even in the slightest.