In a crowded refugee camp in Bethlehem, Echlas chain-smokes her way through a pack of cigarettes recently purchased by her nine-year-old neighbour. Small for his age, and always smiling, he drops by often to ask whether she needs anything from one of the small shops in the camp. As she talks, smoke fills the small room. Outside, the imam’s faithful call to prayer competes with the shouts of the children playing soccer.

On October 10th, 2025, the one-year anniversary of my daughter Abby’s funeral, I awoke at our cabin in Northern Minnesota and got ready to drive the 15 minutes to Balmoral golf course. The year had carved me into an emotional relief of pain, guilt, sorrow, gratitude and wonderment, and I wanted the day to be a reflection on the yearlong emotional tempest that spun my life in all directions.

I read Virginia Woolf’s novels and her famous 1929 lecture, A Room of One’s Own, at the University of Cambridge during my master’s from 2021 to 2023. At the time, I did not realise how deeply her words would follow me into life beyond the classroom. At first, it was simply a part of my curriculum, something I had to study for the exams and pass the course. But gradually, as a writer, it began to permeate my daily existence. Woolf writes about a woman who needs a place of her own to write.

Think for a moment of your childhood home. Your bedroom, where you slept, played with your dolls and cars, and sludged through homework. Your kitchen, where your mother hovered over the stove, stirring chicken noodle soup. Your living room, where you watched TV with your siblings, decorated the Christmas tree with both breakable and paper ornaments, and sat in the corner, sulking in time-out.

When did my hands become my mother’s?
I took the time to really notice them, finishing typing the last words of a text to my daughter’s babysitter to let her know I would be a little late due to a train delay. Smooth and yet slightly leathered from years of harsh Chicago winters and humid summers. Knuckles crosshatched and indented. Small wrinkles appear here and there, wrapping around my pudgy fingers.