While Emma sleeps, I pace her living room. I try to sketch out some ideas in my notebook, but I keep thinking back to my father in that bed. Dying, he said. How many times had I prayed for him to just go on and die? To be finally and definitely gone from our lives versus choosing to leave us for some other sort of life?

I'm itching to get back in my studio, but my family would give me endless shit if I left Emma here after having a seizure. When Alice texts me that she's ...