But that feeling lasts only a moment. Because waking up without the pain in my neck from tossing and turning, without my jaw aching from clenching or the inside of my cheeks raw and bloody from biting and sucking all night, is a new kind of high. Even the edges of my vision are crisper, without the hazy film of fatigue that usually smudges every shape, any color.

And for the first time since I ran into Anneliese, I go out for my morning bagel instead of ordering in, practically skipping down my walk-up’s steps, the morning sun hot on my ears. I take a longer route, gulping in fresh air, slowing my pace to admire the insanity of a New York morning—children waiting under a building’s awning for the school bus, suited office workers holding iced coffees bigger than their heads, a traffic jam freezing an entire road for an instant. The tulips are out and I almost bend down and sniff them.

It’s wild what a good night’s sleep can do.

The kids are with their mom, so Anneliese shows up to coffee alone, unraveling a light cotton scarf from her neck. It’s strange seeing her without the children. She seems smaller somehow, more delicate, almost lonely. And I think she feels similar, because she furtively glances around as if to check on them, her version of wriggling a phantom limb.

“What a cute little spot!” she says as she slides into her seat. I’ve picked a café with pink lacquered walls, green chairs, mismatched dishes. “Those croissants smell amazing.” And I tell her to get one as I sip my own latte, watching as she gets in line and surveys all the options in the pastry case.

When she returns, she places a cheese Danish in front of me. “You used to love these. Your dad would pick up a whole box when he went into the city for meetings. Your mom would never eat them, so the three of us would just pick at them for days, a swipe here, a swipe there, even after they went stale.” She takes a flaky crumb of her own croissant, savoring it on her lips before swallowing.

After we chat about how her week’s been—Jordan spilled silver paint all over the apartment floor while working on a science project, Lola can finally sound out words in her books—I ask her about the one person we haven’t really covered yet.