By Lauretta Zucchetti
It started with the discovery of a sock.
I found it in the garage, tucked behind a box of empty Pellegrino bottles I’d been meaning to recycle and several books that were overdue at the library. Just one baby sock, its partner lost, this teeny thing no longer than the length of my index finger, no wider than my palm. Pale blue, with a bright goldfish embroidered on the heel.
This damn sock socked me in my heart.
It was a fragile time, every morning as delicate as glass. My daughter Isabella had just left for college. Life had taken on an unfamiliar routine in her absence, meaning there was no routine at all. With her arrival in the world, I had given up my career and had essentially taken on one role: that of a mother. With her departure, I was jobless and irrelevant. …
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