The alarm sounded just before six. Groggily, I reached over to the space next to me in the double bed. I knew it was empty; it was a reflex move, like an amputee scratching a missing limb.
I was two weeks into a sleep divorce and I was struggling.
This was supposed to be a trial separation, but it was becoming permanent, and despite the discussions and the agreement (begrudgingly from my perspective), I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had failed and been rejected.
When I opened the guest bedroom door, the cat trotted in to greet me.
‘Traitor,’ I hissed, knowing that
To provide well-rounded coverage and a breadth of insight across various events, we rely on contributions from several staff writers, each bringing their own area of expertise to our publication.