Today I got coffee with this stranger from Grief Group named Caroline Wilson. She has blonde hair to her shoulders with green globs of color on the ends. She likes cake pops, chai lattes, and talking sometimes. I think this is going to be a long year.
-_~* Week 1 *~_-
Santiago walks solemnly through the psych ward, which is what most students call the humanities building. All of the psychology, sociology, and humanities classes are taught there and he’s become well acquainted with the hallways. Somehow, though, it is intimidating walking past classrooms and lecture halls he spends his mornings in now that the sun has nearly set. Despite the knowledge that his anxiety comes from a desire to be non-compliant, Santiago still has trouble grasping where the fear is stemming from… if that makes any sense at all (it doesn’t).
The attorney’s words rattle around Santiago’s head again with each step he takes forward. “You have to stay in school in order to access your funds freely at twenty-one, otherwise you have to wait until the brain has finished developing at age -”
Santiago had interrupted him, “Twenty-six.”
He wants to study the brain. Initially, the young man thought he would be a brain surgeon, but as he’s matured and seen the different sides of people, his interests changed. Now? Santiago wants to be a neuroscientist that researches the change in brain functions over the course of various neurodegenerative disorders. Plus, getting into medical research limits his social interactions, which is highly appealing to him. Santiago prefers to watch rather than participate when it comes to the ‘people’ part of life.
He guesses that it really isn’t hard at all to pinpoint the origin of his nervousness, but he doesn’t care to admit this is his weakness. Attending grief group means he has to open up and socialize with people who are supposed to understand the pain he’s suffering, people who have also lost someone important to them, but Santiago really doesn’t care to open his heart to strangers. He is fully aware that he’s not coping well with his parents’ unexpected deaths. Two months feels like forever and yesterday all at once and sometimes that awareness cripples him for hours or days at a time. The only thing keeping him from crawling into a dark cave is reading about Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and Huntington’s.
Santiago should be going to class but he doesn’t need to be there to get what he needs from school. All he needs to have is proof that he studied medicine and neurology and to know what he’s talking about when he does his research. What does attending lectures really give him in the grand scheme of things – social anxiety and emotional agony to have to get out of bed? Proving that he’s just another doctorate robot doesn’t really mean anything if he doesn’t care about the work he’s doing in the field.
Anxiously, Santiago checks the silver watch around his wrist. The door is right around the corner and will have a golden plaque titling his destination: Group Counseling Conference Room. The first thought that comes to mind is that they should’ve found a shorter name for the room because there should never be a plaque with four lines on it. Then his second thought is, shit, because he’s already five minutes late for the meeting.
Even though the door doesn’t actually creak, it may as well have. Santiago swears in Spanish under his breath as he closes the door behind him. Every pair of eyes in the room swoops over to him as he drops down each step to the floor where the conference tables are lined up through the center of the room, people partnered across the table from one another.
Doctor Anya Kuvaar gestures to the only open spot in the room, a seat across from a blonde girl wearing a crop top in the middle of winter. Bright yellow suspenders are pressing hard across her shoulders as she tugs the fronts forward. Faded makeup makes her look tired but there’s a wide smile across her lips. “If you could, please, take a seat. We’re about to begin after I finish setting up.”
Santiago replaces his hands in his pockets while sidling up to the chair across from her. He is hoping to ignore her but she starts yapping at him as soon as he glances down at his seat. “Your shirt is boring as hell.”
“Good,” Santiago laughs at her, figuring that she’s deflecting her own insecurity about her odd ensemble. He grabs the top of his chair and angles it so that he can take a seat. Of course, before he can sit, she fires off another comment.
“You know, I’m on my period and I have bad gas so I might not make a great partner tonight,” she says too loudly and with far too much twinkle in her eye. It probably isn’t true, and even if it is, she’s just using it as a barrier between herself and the people around her.
So he responds in kind, “And I have a bad personality. I guess we’re compatible.”
Once he settles into his chair and moves his hands from his pockets to the tabletop, the blonde pokes her hand across the table and introduces herself. “I’m Caroline.”
Her voice is smooth and light. Something about it is irritating in a way that Santiago can’t quite pinpoint, and so he keeps his hands right where they’re at, murmuring his introduction without ever looking up at her face. “Santiago.”
“I think we should get a goldfish together,” she begins yet another deflection with a cheerier tone than any of her previous comments,” and I’m not asking you to dinner first.”
Pretty well over her entire charade, he bites back in what he hopes is a hard enough fashion that she stops trying to scare him away and accepts the fate they’ve been assigned. “The goldfish will forget you faster than I will, and I don’t actually care if we have dinner.”
Caroline grins, leaning into the table and winking. “You’re one tough cookie to break. What are you on?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” Santiago smiles, almost even laughing, “which seems to be why I’m here.”
“Same,” she admits coolly and then leans back in her chair, stretching out her bright yellow suspender straps then letting them snap against her chest and shoulders.
It should’ve been silent but everyone else was fiddling with index cards and chatting away about menial things like their favorite drinks, foods, and places to eat. A handful of people share some obvious and cliché choices, and the other half talk about how it’s a tie between this thing or that thing. Caroline interjects with the partner set next to them, occasionally making guesses about Santiago’s preferences.
At first, Caroline lists off a series of foods that are basic: chicken nuggets, tacos, spaghetti and meatballs, cake, and tofu. Then she starts talking about how everyone’s favorite drink is water because the body can’t work without it. Then her follow-up commentary is about the importance of milk and calcium. Thankfully, before she can get any further about her theories, Dr. Anya begins speaking.
“Good evening everyone and welcome to our grief group. Some of you are familiar faces from last semester, but most of you are new. I am sorry for your respective losses,” she has a very soft voice and a slight accent that Santiago can’t quite pinpoint. She goes on to talk about how this grief group will be different than what she’s done in the past and explains that her primary focus for this group is the importance of friendships and relationships. “Studies have shown that we are healthier, happier, and that we heal faster when we have strong relationships. After reviewing the intake sheets and referral forms, it is my professional opinion that what everyone in this room really needs is someone that understands.”
Dr. Anya drones on and on about the research that supports her theory. Eventually, she opens up discussion for any questions from the other attendees, which is then followed by an introduction around the tables. Santiago ignores everyone and waits for Caroline to stand up because then it will be his turn, and he only cares enough to participate at the bare minimum level.
“My name is Santiago Riviera. I’m a biology major. My parents died in a car accident on their way to a fancy work dinner. I didn’t choose to be here and chow mein sounds pretty good right about now.” Everyone laughs at his last statement but he drowns it out with the sound of his chair scratching against the floor. The second the next person stands up to introduce themselves he zones out again, folding the corner of the question card back and forth.
Directions follow the introductions but he doesn’t listen to them because he doesn’t care what they are; instead, he checks his phone for text messages that aren’t there and the time. It’s been half an hour but it feels like longer. He could have sworn the two-hour session had already passed twice.
“Hey, space cadet, are you getting up or what?” Caroline shouts, leaning over the table with her hands supporting her from her side of the table. Hanging loosely from her body despite the suspenders, Santiago accidentally catches a glimpse of Caroline’s pink and brown bra. Embarrassed, he jerks his gaze back down to his hands.
He shrugs. “I wasn’t listening.”
“Our first assignment as orphans in this grief hell is to go get coffee and get to know each other. Are you coming or do I need to lie in my journal about how wonderful it was getting to know Santiago Riviera, lover of chow mein, water, and the human body?”
As he stands, Caroline fills him in on most of what he missed from Dr. Anya. They are supposed to take a journal with them to the coffee shop and write about what they learned from and about their partners. A receipt is required in at least one of the journals as proof that they met up with one another. It sounds hokey as hell and like a cop-out on Dr. Anya’s part, but Santiago goes along with it. If it gets him out of the Grief Group Conference Room then it’s literally not the worst thing that he could be doing.
Caroline immediately starts talking about a coffee shop she knows that’s not too far away from campus. She highlights it’s winning qualities like that it’s the smallest corner shop she’s ever seen, the coffee is unnaturally strong, and that the best thing about it is that it’s literally deserted after the 5 o’clock rush. To Santiago, it sounds like a drag and like the coffee will taste like garbage, but his expectations are low anyway because he always orders a small black coffee to match the bitterness he feels about everything.
That’s not true, of course, because Santiago has been enjoying black coffee since coming to college because the bitterness wakes him up and the caffeine gives him the energy he needs to make it through whatever study sessions he’s started. If he had to pick a true favorite drink – it would probably be black coffee.
The pair turns into a dark road with little traffic. Effortlessly, Caroline sidesteps into Santiago and forces her hand into his while walking. “I don’t like walking down this road but it’s the quickest route there and I don’t have the cash for an Uber.”
Hearing her say this makes Santiago laugh but it also makes him sad. He knows why she doesn’t like this road since there have been at least three reported rapes this year alone that have occurred in the alleys starting from this main stretch. Street lamps are few and far between and the only residences are third-floor studio apartments that are too far away to hear the crimes happening on the ground. If she had asked if they could take an Uber, he would’ve offered to pay. Goodness knows he has more money than he knows what to do with most of the time. He decides on the spot to pay for her purchase at the coffee shop and then ask if they can get an Uber for their travels back.
Squeezing Caroline’s hand, he figures he should talk to her a little bit.
“I suppose your parent, or parents, died as well? You called us ‘orphans’ back at the psyche ward.”
It is hard to believe that Caroline is grieving, as she smiles constantly and laughs at almost everything. If she is grieving, she must be an exceptional actress or in need of serious mental help. However, Santiago is in no place to really make that judgment considering the fact that his recent choices have resulted in blackmail-from-the-grave from his parents.
Breathing in quickly, she answers in an almost sigh, “My mother may as well be dead to me. She’s been in jail since I was a baby. I’ve never known who my father is, either, so I guess he could be dead too. No.” Caroline looks both ways at the crosswalk when they reach it, even though the light is indicating that they can cross. He’s not sure why he notices this small hesitancy but he can’t ignore it now that he knows it is there. This loud, confident, and outgoing girl seems less so under the shadows of a setting sun and a stoplight. “My grandma died after mixing some of her medications up. There’s nobody left in my family that I know and since I’m a legal adult, figuring out where I belong has fallen on my shoulders.”
“Yikes,” he sputters out nervously. Not only has she lost the only person taking care of her, but her parents are gone in the wind as well. Sympathy for her situation softens him and allows him to correct himself before she responds. “I’m sad to hear about that – it must be really difficult.”
Caroline shrugs, “I try not to think about how hard things are these days.”
Silence quickly replaces conversation, both of them unsure how to follow the heaviness of that conversation. Fortunately, it does not reign for very long because they’re soon at the corner shop that Caroline was talking about, a small place called “Just My Coffee & Me.”
“Seems like a place for loners,” Santiago notes. “Will we fit in?”
“Sad boys like us?” she giggles, “Yeah, we’ll fit in just fine.”
Immediately once inside Santiago’s eyes are drawn to the black floors. Solid poured cement spans the corner shop that probably sports a double-digit max capacity. In line with the dark floors, the walls and ceiling are brilliant whites with silver fixtures. White and gray marble counters add the grayscale aesthetic that is surprisingly comforting to him. Even the menu follows the theme. As he drops his gaze to the register, he sees a sign that reads ‘Grab and Go.’
“Grab and go?” Santiago asks with sincere curiosity. There are tables and chairs crammed at the front of the shop, and even a couple near the pass at the back. Why would the owner want a sign that tells the customers to get what they need and get out? “Doesn’t that make customers feel unwanted?”
Caroline shrugs. “Buggy doesn’t live under the fallacy that folks come here to socialize. Most of the sad souls that come through those doors are just looking for scoot juice to make it to the end of their predictable days.”
“Call me crazy – ”
“Can do, crazy,” she interrupts, smacking the counter really hard and sighing with dramatic expertise. Santiago can’t even hide his rolling eyes.
“ – but it seems like you have a pretty sour outlook on life.”
A woman, presumably the owner, slips from a break room or office, looking exhausted and grumpy. As the name tag comes into view, Santiago’s suspicions are confirmed – this is Buggy. He can’t help but wonder if this is her real name, though, and inquires once she joins them at the front counter.
In unison, Caroline and Buggy groan. “No, dipshit,” they say together. Then they high five, which makes Santiago feel extremely out of place.
“That’s my Dungeons and Dragons name. I play a bugbear in my party, have been for a few years now, and so many people know me as Buggy that I changed my nametag. None of the worker bees noticed, and the others that did already knew why I changed it,” Buggy goes on about Dungeons and Dragons for several more minutes. It was really interesting at first but that wears off very quickly. Santiago is able to feign interest almost professionally, though, and continues looking intrigued until she reaches a point where she catches herself babbling.
At which point she asks if Caroline would like her usual.
“Of course,” she replies cheerily. It doesn’t match her morbid sense of humor and general pessimism, but it’s not mismatched either. Caroline is an enigma in a crop top and suspenders. Even her extremely puffy windbreaker doesn’t look like it’s enough to keep her warm.
“Et tu?” Buggy asks.
“A too? Is that a combo or…” Santiago’s voice trails off as he realizes that both women are gawking at him in utter disappointment. It dawns on him after he’s already embarrassed himself, but he corrects himself once he realizes. “And me, yeah, uhm, a small black coffee, š’il vous plaît.”
Buggy starts ringing everything up, but Santiago drops a twenty-dollar bill on the counter before she finishes. Caroline begins tapping hard against the display case of baked goods, “Don’t forget my cake pop!”
“You and those damn cake pops, seriously?” Buggy banters, a smile over her dry, thin lips. It is a no-brainer assumption to make that Caroline comes here often and feels at home amongst the monotony of ‘Just My Coffee & Me.’ He tries to adapt to her level of comfort, acting airy and disinterested while waiting for change.
Caroline doesn’t offer to pay and he doesn’t ask her to pay him back for her half. When Buggy drops the receipt with his change, he sees that she ordered a large chai latte – her regular order. She has the cake pop gone in one whole bite, barely able to keep her lips together as she chews.
Buggy moves around sluggishly, caring very little for timetables. It doesn’t matter, Santiago supposes, since nobody else is in line and passersby are almost nonexistent. “So, Caroline’s guest, judging by that accent of yours, you speak Spanish?”
“Enough to get by when my family visits from Mexico,” he mutters lamely, unwilling to let on how fluent he is to Buggy. It’s not that he’s ashamed of his mother’s Mexican heritage, or that he’s proud of his father’s white and cultureless heritage. It’s more that he doesn’t like talking about it. His mother always told him to be proud and to rise above the racial expectations people would have of him. But…
“Todavía no somos respetados, mi hijo,” she used to say to him in a hushed tone. More than once she would walk into a team meeting and be scorned and dismissed as a woman of color. It was quiet but obvious to her; every suggestion she made was ignored until someone else repurposed her suggestions exactly and got taken seriously. Santiago’s father was the only engineer that ever took her work seriously.
They ended up leaving their company to work for contractors all over northern Illinois, often traveling out of state for meetings and presentations. It became clear to him at a young age that they were important, which made his mother’s struggles all the more painful to witness, to hear, and to read about in various tech journals.
“Santiago?” Caroline yells, nudging him with her elbow, both drinks in hand. “Are you with us?”
Uneasy about answering truthfully, he smiles and nods. Caroline apologizes loudly for her ‘space cadet’ of a partner and ushers him all the way to the front of the shop to sit down. Everything about staying to drink their coffee feels wrong but less uncalled for when she slams their notebooks on the table. He almost forgot that they are supposed to be filling out the notebook with information that they learn about their partner and returning to the conference room with details, facts.
“I was thinking about my mom,” he shares. Telling her more isn’t necessary. Caroline’s pink lips fall into a deep frown and her brows furrow. Signifying some level of understanding in her body language, she lets the silence from earlier return and enjoys a seat at their table.
While sipping at his coffee, Santiago asks clarifying questions about the notebooks. Even with her explanation earlier, he had missed key facts. For example, they have to fill the journals out together every week. It blows his mind and he inquires for how long, but the answer isn’t what he was hoping to hear. “I want to lie so badly but she wants us to do it for a year. She’s calling it the one-year healing challenge.”
“That’s disconcerting,” he chokes, his coffee ‘going down the wrong pipe,’ as his father loved saying. The science supports the statement, which is why Santiago never corrected him, but he still likes to think of them as ‘tubes’ instead. A smile wants to come to his lips, he can feel it twitching at the corner of his mouth, but his body can’t make it actually happen. His broken heart won’t let it.
Caroline starts writing Santiago’s name across the top of her notebook, in a vibrant red ink no less, along with a date and a time along with a note about the ordered items. Then, in bold bubble letters, she writes that he paid for the order and has the receipt. For what little he knows about her, it’s surprisingly diligent.
It makes him wonder. “How did you end up in grief group?”
“I chose to be here, actually,” her voice is cool and solid. Nothing about what she’s saying is a deflection or a ruse to mask some truer truth. It’s a whole answer, a complete response. “I don’t like being at home now that I live with my ex-boyfriend. This felt like the healthiest alternative.”
Mulling this over, Santiago throws a mouthful of coffee back and taps on the table with the folded receipt that he’s keeping out for his notebook. He didn’t bring something to write with so he’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do except show up with an empty notebook. Though, it’s a shame, since he’s actually got plenty of information to jot down about his curious partner. Caroline Wilson, lover of chai lattes and cake pops, Chatty Kathy, and overlord of all things sarcastic who lives with her ex-boyfriend and is scared to walk down sketchy streets.
Caroline Wilson, lover of crop tops and suspenders.
Caroline Wilson, a voluntary member of Grief Group.
“Need a pencil?” The peppy blonde doesn’t wait for an answer because she chucks a vibrant pink colored pencil at his face. Smiling at him, she pokes her hand back out and shakes her head. “You strike me as more of a green sort of fella.”
Shaking his head, he corrects her, “My favorite color is actually gray.”
“Then you must be loving this,” she snorts, gesturing all around her at the blandness of the café. Grinning from ear-to-ear, she grabs a proper pencil and lays it in the middle of the table. They swap writing utensils and he sets it on the empty page.
He snickers and takes another swig of his coffee. It is almost gone and the idea of a refill crosses his mind. However, by the time Caroline is done with her drink, it will likely be time to leave. So he settles on making small conversation instead.
Unsure what to talk about first, Santiago begins asking about school. In no time at all, he learns that Caroline graduated high school early and took a break year to start working. She started working as a barista at a café called ‘The Chipped Coffee Cup,’ and has been working there for nearly two years. Apparently, she loves it and has been considering not even going past her associate’s degree because she has trouble seeing herself in any other role.
“Making coffee, chatting up strangers, even if they’re running on empty when they step up to the counter, is always satisfying,” she swoons, eyelashes fluttering as she reflects on past experiences. Santiago doesn’t comment on her preference for working as a barista or judge the joy it brings her. While it is a simple life, it is a joyful one, he’s sure. After all, Buggy may not look like she’s got her life figured out, but she seems to have found peace in the life she’s living.
And that’s all anyone could hope for, Santiago assumes.
Easily, their conversation shifts towards his school experience, at which point he talks about trying to graduate by the end of his third year, next year. Caroline thinks that it’s madness, especially once he tells her that he doesn’t plan on taking summers off. “It’s not realistic to take a semester off.”
“How so?” she questions.
“In the real world, you don’t get ten weeks off of work, you don’t get a break, so why get used to one?” he rattles off, having defended his stance dozens of times to anyone questioning his choice. It must come off as angry because Caroline pulls her phone out and starts tapping away on the screen. It’s the iPhone 5S, an exact twin of the phone in his pocket. Instinct takes over.
“Have you read about the iPhone coming out this month? The specs on it looking solid and they’re returning to a larger format. I can’t wait to get my hands on mine. It’s already pre-ordered…”
“Cool,” she groans, rolling her head back with her eyes closed.
“Uhm, yeah, actually,” he mumbles, feeling that she doesn’t want to talk anymore. The air shifts and since he doesn’t have much left in his cup, he pours it down his throat in desperation. No sooner than the second his cup hits the tabletop, his hands grip the pencil and he starts writing about Caroline in his notebook, aiming for honesty and minimalism.
Caroline requires almost no convincing on the Über front. They sit as far away from each other as possible, invested in their phones as much as they can pretend. Santiago sneaks a peek at her screen whenever she sighs and looks out the window. An open text thread – every time; he thinks it must be her ex-boyfriend because she seems more and more rigid the closer they get to the school campus.
As for Santiago himself, he’s been reading the summaries for the two podcasts he still needs to catch up on from his favorite show, Bad Advice Chronicles. Usually, he’s on top of each new upload, but he’s been skipping them when they come out, afraid to hear something too real and too relatable. Santiago is painfully self-aware where his grief is concerned, but he just can’t push himself past it.
Sometimes he feels so stuck that he doesn’t dare admit how dark his thoughts get.
Dr. Anya Kuvaar is mingling with other groups that have returned and is reading through the journals. She doesn’t seem to be indicating that anyone has done good or bad, but merely asking how the coffee tasted and if they were comfortable. Caroline makes a beeline for her previous seat while Santiago looks for some tape or a stapler to put his receipt in the corner of the page where he wrote about his first meeting with Caroline.
A year of dinners with Caroline, he thinks slowly. Once per week he’s going to have to meet up with her and discuss what they’re going through, and they’re going to have to pretend to like it, or worse they’re going to be open about how miserable it is to be forced to do something social for the sake of healing. Santiago isn’t sure that he’s ready to heal, not sure if he wants to heal. Yet, here he is, a notebook in his hands and the pencil Caroline gave him to write in the other.
“What’s your number?” The question comes out effortlessly as if he were going to ask for it regardless. Santiago didn’t plan to ask, of course, he hadn’t even thought of it before this moment, but it happened so naturally. He stands awkwardly with the inside cover of his notebook extended to her. “So we can text about when we’re going to meet up next time?”
Without acknowledging him, she obliges in his request. She writes in her brilliant red pen her name and phone number before tossing his notebook to his side of the table. “Text me when you’re ready,” she says, her face back in her phone. Santiago nods in one harsh motion. As far as social interactions are concerned, he reminds himself that it could’ve been much worse.
The night starts moving quickly as the final partners start returning with the notebooks poking out of the take-out bags, already stained by food and drink. Many people talk animatedly about what a wonderful time they had, at least while Dr. Anya is looking at them. But the second she leaves? Their faces fall and drift back into their cellphones and to-go cups.
“How many of you feel that you will meet with your partners again next week, as I’ve requested?”
Dr. Anya looks all around the room but continues toward Santiago and Caroline without breaking stride. Nobody raises their hand, though a few people share that they think they will as an excuse to get out of other social obligations. It reveals a lot about those who voice it, but Santiago doesn’t worry himself with that bitter truth.
Instead, he glances at Caroline who nods her head subtly, affirming what Santiago hasn’t even asked her yet: are we going to have dinner next week? Even if he doesn’t know what Caroline thinks of him, at least he knows where he stands with her. After all, she chose to be here, and he highly doubts anyone else in the room can say the same.
Dr. Anya smiles, stopping next to Santiago and opening his notebook. She continues talking about how they’re going to have a group session on Monday, September 8th, and that she is always available to speak in the event of an emergency, or during a moment of sorrow because she cares about everyone deeply. Reminders that, while this was only ever meant to be a meet-and-greet session, she will be staying for another hour in the room should anyone wish to speak with her directly.
“Otherwise, you are free to go for the night,” Dr. Anya announces abruptly. People are rushing from the room in a sort of a frenzy that is embarrassing but understandable. Santiago would’ve left just as quickly were it not for the fact that his notebook is gripped tightly between her thin fingers. Caroline doesn’t move, either, which captures his attention.
Santiago starts whistling, patient for Dr. Anya to let go of his notebook or return it, but she waits until the room is clear. Then she finally addresses the pair of them. “Caroline, you wrote significantly less than Santiago. I am curious why that is.”
A part of him hurts, though he’s not sure why, but he knows his facial features won’t betray him. ‘Lacking emotion’ is one of the things his roommate usually complains about, especially these days. Caroline stands up and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know him well enough to write about him yet. So I wrote the only thing I knew for sure and I felt like that was good enough.”
Dr. Anya raises a brow. “May I show him what you wrote?”
Santiago wants to see it but Caroline rips the notebook from the table and storms out of the room without speaking on the matter further. Although, she makes a point of reminding Santiago, “Text me when you want to have dinner!”
As much as he would’ve liked to know what she wrote, he is just as content not knowing. Whatever she wrote doesn’t matter. For now, he’s got to go home and start working on his late assignments and getting to work on projects he’s missed the opportunities to do within a group.
And, for the first time this semester, that doesn’t seem so daunting.
Are you ready for the next chapter – click here to keep reading!
..::Acknowledgments::..
>>A huge shout out to my best pal, Ouranose, for editing this story so that it was ready for posting tonight. She’s been letting me soundboard ideas and plan this project out (sometimes at the detriment of her own projects). I cannot express how appreciative I am of her and I recommend checking out her writing if you get the opportunity. She has a fun set up for the new year and it’s gonna be one to watch (and read)!
>>I also want to give thanks to a group of wonderful writers and brilliant women who continue to help me build a platform. Screamin’ Mamas saw my first published story and has accepted other writings of mine as guest works on their blog. As a woman who became a mother at sixteen, sometimes it is hard to find a place where I fit. Their support has given me the confidence that I needed to continue pursuing big projects like this and share my passion for writing with the world. They post content regularly as well and I recommend reading some of the wonderful things their writers have crafted.
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