Here is the only thing I have.
Everybody wants this to be about a woman who accused me of trapping her son, and who turned out to have done it herself thirty-six years earlier.
That is a good story and it is true and I have told it at a table and watched people enjoy it.
It is not the thing.
The thing is that I sat in a delivery room with nobody, and I told myself for three months that it was because of them.
And about half of it was.
The other half was a telephone number in my own phone that I did not use, because using it meant admitting that somebody had seen something before I did.
If there is somebody in your life who warned you about the thing that is now happening to you —
ring them.
Not when it is sorted. Not when you can tell it as a story with an ending.
