Chapter Thirteen
As a little girl my favorite cereal was Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Even when I got older, my father let me eat that for breakfast every morning. His eyes would crinkle. Never grow up, he said.
If I imagined anything, it would be making coffee before a full day of research, catching a few minutes with my husband, Justin, before he left for work.
No amount of forethought could have prepared me for this morning.
A Southern breakfast spills across a long walnut table. Steam rises from a pile of fresh biscuits, a saucer of dark gravy beside it. Heaping bowls of fruit contain grapes and orange pieces and rosy strawberries. A stack of bacon could feed an army.
I have a small plate of scrambled eggs and cantaloupe slices. I would have thought I’d be queasy after the events of las
