How do fiction writers do this? I prop my chin in my hand and stare out the window at the summer green. The difficulty of this project is finding just the right words to describe real events. What would I do if I had to invent the plot first?

I’d make it happier, for one thing.

But my story wasn’t happy. It was my story. And I’m not doing it because I think the truth of my life is unique. Actually, I think it’s pretty common. I know it’s common. The story of my abusive father and, later, my abusive husband is a familiar one among women.

It’s a story that gets swept under the rug over and over again.

It’ll keep getting shoved out of sight unless we refuse to be silenced.

Bottom line, though—no one will ever hear my story if I don’t write it down and publish it in this book. Pressing forward is the only option.

You could ask Mateo to take you back to Paris, a procrastinating voice whispers.

My face heats. The voice has a point. I could ask him, and I don’t think he’d refuse. I think he’d have his plane ready in a matter of hours. What’s happening between us is extremely strange, but the Paris thing? That was good.

However, I will not be texting Mateo to ask him for a repeat vacation. I will not be abandoning my laptop in my house and flying off to a better destination.

Even if I desperately want to.

“That’s hiding, Emily,” I say out loud. “And you’re done hiding.”

I blow a mental kiss to the happy memories of being with Paige in Paris. With Mateo in Paris. The way he was with her, patient and charming. The warmth of him in bed next to me. I’ll still have those memories when I’m finished writing.

And I only have until Paige’s birthday cake is done to write today.

Her party is tomorrow afternoon, and I wanted to leave plenty of time to frost and decorate. This is going to be the first birthday she’ll spend with all of us—me and Beau and Jane and Mateo—and I want it to be perfect for her.

One final glance at the timer on the stove, and I turn my attention to my childhood.