I turn around. Caitlyn is standing in the doorway. The door to the closet is only slightly open, as before. The ringing has stopped.

“Am I getting pancakes or not?” she asks.

I look back at the mirror. There I am, my mouth open, holding the dirty clothes in my arms. I step to the side so that I can see the closet in the reflection. The door is only slightly open and there’s Caitlyn in the doorway, waiting for pancakes.

God, I’m tired. I look like I’m nursing a once-in-a-lifetime hangover.

“Sure,” I say, holding up the dirty clothes. “Just as soon as you figure out where these go.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she says. She sheepishly takes the clothes from my arms, opens the door to the closet, and deposits them in the laundry basket.

“There. Now, can I have pancakes?”

“I don’t know. I think you’ve earned oatmeal.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Oatmeal with raisins.”

Caitlyn rolls her eyes and makes mock puking sounds as she goes out into the hall and down the stairs.

I start to follow, but can’t help taking one more look in the vanity mirror from across the room.

My reflection is still there, wearing that stupid, puzzled stare.

*

Two helpings of pancakes later, I wave goodbye as the yellow bus rumbles away with Caitlyn onboard.

I was right to be worried last night. This is all hitting me harder than I thought it would. Between the lack of sleep, my mind seeing Nicole, and having to send Caitlyn off for her first day of school by myself, there’s no more denying that I’m not coping very well. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but this is how it is. I can’t let Caitlyn see it. She’s going to have enough to worry about. I want her focusing on school and making new friends—not on her father, who is slightly losing it.

I’ll be fine.

The most important thing I can do now is try to establish a routine. It’s time to get to something normal. It’s time to write.

I go to the kitchen, pour myself another cup of coffee, and then, filled with equal parts excitement and anxiety, I head to the Writing Room.

Seconds later, I’m sitting at my desk, surrounded by the works of authors who have inspired me. There’s a beautiful view of Willow Lake outside the window and the endless possibilities of a blank page lie before me. My particular method is to write everything out longhand in notebooks. It makes editing a lot easier. I already know the plot. I know all the twists and turns that are going to keep the reader up late into the night. I’m about to begin. I crack my knuckles and take a breath. This is a moment to relish.

“Here we go …”