I walked into the kitchen on autopilot. Kitchens had always been my safe places. Of course it was partly because I loved to cook, but even now—when I had no intention of cooking—the room still felt like the safest place to hurt. To cry without being interrupted.

I closed my eyes and let the tears find me again. So many times I had believed the worst was over, that I wouldn’t have to cry from sadness anymore. But life kept proving me wrong, as it always did.

Lies upon lies. How long had ...