Jessa

Saturday mornings are usually quiet.

Not sleepy-quiet—our house has never really mastered that—but familiar quiet. The hum of the fridge. The distant sound of a neighbor’s lawn mower. The creak in the floorboard by the hallway that Jackson still pretends isn’t there even though it’s announced his presence since we were ten.

Today, though, my nerves are loud.

I’m standing in the kitchen in socks and an oversized T-shirt, pouring cereal into a bowl like it’s a ...