My daughter's row house was a prison. I rehearsed my escape as I stared into a sizzling fry-pan where slices of onion were turning limp. "Your husband has worn me out," I'd say; or, maybe, "I promised I'd stay three months. It's nine today." With a knife, I scraped minced garlic off the cutting board. I planned to break the news after the kids were in bed. For sixteen hours a day, nearly every day from August to March, I had been my son-in-law's caretaker. Exhausted, I had to quit, and I had to make my daughter understand why.
I designed the cover for StoryQuarterly. My memoir appeared in its pages.