I once pronounced 2020 as my personal recovery year. My wife and I were looking over my calendar and feeling almost giddy—no air travel, no moving dates, no surprises. It was October 2019 and she had spent a couple weeks in hospital due to complications from a miscarriage. We had just left the city for a suburb—our sixth move in as many years—to secure better housing and a greater sense of community. We were exhausted, but I knew the coming year was ours: ‘nothing would happen’ were my famous last words.
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