If my ex-husband could move on, I could, too. I would search for my gardener, someone who would help me to grow and bloom, but who would recognize the fragility of a new flower just starting to poke out of the ground.If I was lucky, he’d have a long cultivator.

I felt myself begin to slide down into that recognizable abyss, down and down, where I knew it would be cold and dark, but which had become more familiar to me than my face in the mirror. I knew I should instead be grateful for this time with my two best friends, for having laughed, but I let myself slide anyway. And hoped someone would pull me back up.