“I pace through the house talking to them. I feel them in the room and they talk back to me, just like they did when I was living with the bastards!”
Miriam stopped and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. She squinted at me across the table at the Starbucks, and took a sip of her Americano. Miriam is a good friend of mine, the wife of one of my colleagues. She had called me the night before, and asked me if I could meet her to talk about something that was bothering her.