I rush to the quai in the Gare de Lyon in Paris. Flinging my small case on the train, I jump on. Moments later the train pulls away along the track, heading to Nice.

Slumped in my seat, I can relax, breathe, and observe those already settled in my compartment. Business people, couples, and single travellers surround me. One small figure catches my eye—a lady in her early sixties, dressed in a double-breasted camel hair coat, green beret, and smart brown leather gloves. She is elegant, with red lipstick. The slight nervousness of her fidgeting hands is familiar.

“I’m done,” says Leigh, her voice full of defeat. But she’s angry. There’s always anger.

I heave a sigh, and my shoulders slump. “I think I am, too.”

My eyes are puffy and red, my nose feels like it’s clogged with cement. I need some Advil. And a drink.

I thought, for the split-second between my brain recognizing that I was being called out to speak and my mouth automatically responding, that I should give a fake name.

I always had an inexplicable liking for “Veronica.” 

The week I got back home to New York after spending my junior year of college in England, two unexpected things happened. I got a phone call offering me an internship in Manhattan that I’d been rejected for months earlier and my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor.