It’s 8:00 pm. I’m making a quick run to the store. I need some cooking tools to make my first homemade dinner in my new place.
My plan is to roast a chicken in my new Dutch Oven. A few weeks ago, I would not have believed I would have my own apartment. I had lost all hope I’d ever be independent again, and my father knew it.
He took advantage of this fact, and our relationship became damaged because he mistakenly assumed that I had no other option except to live with him and follow his rules. At age 56, I proved him wrong.