My younger sister somehow twisted that logic when it came to my son. In her mind, the decorations at her daughter’s birthday party were apparently more important than whether my child could breathe.
My name is Diana. I’m thirty-seven and live in Seattle, Washington—a place where rain drifts sideways and the tall pines seem determined to survive anything. I own a small independent veterinary clinic tucked between a coffee shop and a print store. No matter how thoroughly we clean, the building always smells faintly of espresso and damp dogs. After years of working there, I’ve grown fond of that scent.
I have one child, my ten-year-old son, Ethan. He’s unusually gentle and spends his free time reading instruction manuals just because he finds them interesting. He sleeps with a lamp on every night. Once he explained why: complete darkness, he said, feels like standing alone in a huge empty room.
I understood exactly what he meant.