This trilogy is why I spend the month of November underground. Every person I have ever loved in my 62 years on earth has died in the month of November
November. You are not my friend.
For two years I told anyone who would listen that a wolf was at my door. I couldn’t name the wolf, or recognize it if it knocked, yet I felt its presence, pressing forward, getting bolder and drawing closer with each passing day. I knew he was leaning in for the kill. Until 5PM on Wednesday Nov. 9, 2005, it was just another ordinary day of being a mom to my 12-year-old son, a wife of the local attorney, and manager of the cool, hip, young dental practice in town. Just a routine, average day in a routine, average life. The wolf was now standing with his paws pressed against my front door, poised to knock; I could almost hear it.
Although my husband Rob and I only worked two miles apart, we rarely saw each other during our busy workdays. We usually spoke briefly by…
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