“Glenn,” my husband declared, “this routine has got to change. I accept that you’re in mourning, but you can’t be self-destructive like this.” He was right. We both agreed that I either “suck it up” and get through this first semester as a junior professor or that I resign immediately and look for a job outside of academia. We had this conversation over dinner one night, and just few days before classes resumed.

As I had become accustomed to my new routine of binge-drinking, it was on this rare occasion that I found myself actually sober and even hungry. My husband, Jason, had surprised me with a home-cooked meal of hand made gnocchi – one of his many specialties. Along with his gift for making fantastic Italian food, he also had a special way of giving me advice in the simplest terms. As he poured me a nice glass of Sangiovese, he gave me these two options. Recalling my days as a pianist and listening to the meticulous clicks of a metronome, my ears followed each syllable that rolled off his tongue and onto his lips. And, as I listened my eyes were fixated on that empty wine glass. I watched it change into a brilliant kaleidoscope, bursting with swirls of various deep red hues. Once he had finished speaking, I watched the wine settle, and suddenly I felt a rush of confidence.

“Jason, you’re right,” I said. “I’ll quit this new job and find something different.” That declaration and the agreement we made that late August evening filled me with a type of hope that I had previously thought died with my mother. That renewed hope, however, was soon dashed when I met Jack and his volatile middle-aged ego. Read More »