I’d been in survival mode so long that it took a while for all the real emotions of moving out to hit me. It wasn’t until one rainy night during winter break–the first time I didn’t have my son that the tears came. Truthfully, they’d been with me since the morning, but at this point in life, I’d become a pro at finding things to distract myself. But at 11:45 at night, there is no number of scrolls to avoid the inevitable. And so, while lying on my mattress still on the floor because I hadn’t found a bed frame that called to me, I cried. First, heated pricks near my tear ducts that turned to quick droplets across my cheeks, that turned to full, heaving sobs into my pillow.

A few weeks ago, while setting up my table at Black Romance Book Festival, my friend, who just so happened to be assisting me, asked me a question you’ve probably heard times before.

“Do you even know you’re that girl?”