I just spent two solid beautiful hours alone in my room. It was luxurious. I crawled into bed fully clothed; I read three short stories by Alice Munro, each of them pleasantly disturbing. I watched the light change across the rounded ceiling of the room through the window facing south. I half-listened to the rousing game of hide-and-seek the boys played with The Girls (the reason I’d fled to my room in the first place), to Gabriel teaching John the ins and outs of a game on the iPad in which the objective is to get a snail from here to there without being scorched or impaled or falling off a cliff. For short spells I slept.
It felt like recovery.