I thought that Saturday morning would be ordinary. Warm. Simple. The kind of morning that smelled like bacon, cinnamon, and French toast. The kind where I could almost convince myself that my life was exactly what I had always wanted. Bacon hissed in the skillet. Vanilla and cinnamon swirled in the mixing bowl. My mother-in-law, Cora, was supposed to arrive any minute with fresh bread from the bakery in town…. My eight-year-old daughter, Talia, had already gone outside in her duck-print pajamas with her little pink watering can, because Saturday mornings in our house belonged to flowers and French toast....
Continues…