I’m writing from the comfort of a newly renovated apartment in Bordeaux, France. My writing tool of choice is a new MacBook that I treated myself to before leaving home for a 6-week trip to Europe with my partner of 27 years.A fresh cup of coffee sits inches from my left hand. In the room next to the small kitchen where I’m writing, my partner is sleeping soundly. The quiet of the morning reminds me of the peace that has been absent from my life for months, a peace that has kept my writing on the back burner—writing whose scream I’ve silenced for so long it has dragged me to the edge of depression.We are into week #2 of a trip to celebrate our retirement from the corporate world. Four thousand four hundred and eighty-eight miles to the west, our neighbors in Miramar, Florida are under a tropical storm warning. Six miles to the south of our home, my feisty and healthy 97-year-old mom is under the care of the compassionate caretakers God sent to care for her so I could take a mental and physical break from the worries that come with living my life knowing I can’t control the inevitable.