In the summer of 2017, I left New York City, where I had been living for seven years, and moved to Boston, Massachusetts. My time in NYC had been mixed. I had tried and failed to get my first novel published; I had worked a job I found meaningful, but which offered no health insurance, no future. By the end of my stay, I was weary of the city, which reminded me, every day, of all I hadn’t achieved by staying. And so I left, glad for the leaving.
And yet, once I settled in the new city, near the university where my husband would be attending architecture school, a new weariness crept in. On Saturday mornings, my husband long gone to the studio, I wandered the sleepy neighbourhood, with…