My name is Alice Walker, and for the last three years I have measured my life in overdue notices, lunchbox notes, and the exact number of miles my car could still survive before the check-engine light stopped being a suggestion and became a threat.
At forty-eight, I had become a woman who could stretch a casserole, a tank of gas, and a smile far past their natural limits. I worked full-time at a dental supply company doing payroll and inventory reconciliation, then came home to laundry, homework, dishes, and the quiet heartbreak of pretending exhaustion was normal for my children. My daughter, Lucy, was fifteen and old enough to notice when I watered down orange juice. My son, Noah, was ten and still young enough to believe that if I kissed his forehead at bedtime, tomorrow would probably be okay.
Three years earlier, my husband Ben had walked out with the kind of efficiency that told me he had been leaving long before he actually left.
I still remember the note on the kitchen counter. I need to figure some things out. Don’t wait up.
