Two hours later, I walk into the empty apartment, dump my bag on the table, and survey the room. I don’t want to be here; I should be at work organizing instead of coming home to sob into my pillow. I need to get a grip on my life. Wilma is right, and all of this has been non-stop, yet all I’ve done is bury my head in the sand and push myself to work, never taking the time to absorb it all. I need time to think, real-time to myself, to figure out what I will do.  

Do I want to ...