Noah is five now, all long limbs and questions that never seem to stop tumbling out of him. His observant eyes follow me around the apartment like twin spotlights, tracking every movement as I prepare for another early reporting shift. I’m standing at the kitchen counter, notebook in one hand and my coffee thermos in the other, steam curling up in lazy spirals while I scribble last-minute notes on a piece of women’s hockey coverage I’m polishing before deadline.
The five years since his birth have forged me completely, hammered me on an anvil I didn’t know I could survive. The old me is scattered somewhere back in the dark winter of 2019. In her place is someone who runs at dawn to clear her head, who sets boundaries like concrete walls, and who knows exactly what she’s capable of becaus
