For years, it had just been me and Toby. His father slowly drifted out of our lives before Toby could even say “Daddy,” and I poured every ounce of myself into raising him. We built a quiet, simple world—just the two of us—and I’d convinced myself we didn’t need anyone else.
Then, on a rainy Thursday evening, everything began to change.
I was exhausted after a double shift at the hospital, riding the subway home with aching feet and a sleep-deprived brain. A stranger offered me his seat. I almost refused, but my body welcomed the kindness. He was reading Diary by Chuck Palahniuk, one of my favorite books. That’s what started it.
