I was sitting in a hotel room on a king-sized bed at a conference.

I was sitting there alone, not minding being alone, wishing that I missed him.

Wishing I missed the man I’d been married to for eleven years and forgetting what the touch of his hand felt like. His calloused, farm-boy hand, the one that found me across the duvet those three years I relapsed into anorexia and sleeping pills, the one which fed me ice chips as I birthed two miracle boys, the one which always gave me the first strawberry of the season from our garden.

And I crawled onto the king-sized mattress then, stretched out across the miles of bed and cried.