The drive home from the hospital that Tuesday felt heavier than the twelve-hour surgical shift I’d just survived. Traffic on Route 9 was a snarled beast of metal and exhaust, the summer heat baking the asphalt into a shimmering mirage. All I wanted was the simple, profound relief of kicking off my Danskos, pouring a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio, and holding my world in my arms: my seven-year-old daughter, Maisy, and my fifteen-month-old son, Theo.
