If you find a grey door on Old Mill Road, and you have the courage to bring your silence… tell Monique I sent you.
For the last decade, I have been a professional chaser. I chased deadlines, carpool schedules, gluten-free recipes that actually taste good, and that elusive third load of laundry that never seems to fold itself. By Thursday afternoon, I usually feel like a phone at 2% battery—still moving, but dimly.
Last Tuesday, I was having a particularly bad day. (My toddler painted the dog with hummus. Enough said.) I ducked into a diner to hide for ten minutes, and under my coffee cup was a napkin with handwriting so elegant it looked like sheet music. It read: