It’s a hard emotion to explain—what it feels like to fake every single moment of your life. To breathe but to not exist. To smile but to not be happy. To nod and agree but to not really care. And some nights, I’d put Tommy down to sleep and listen to him speak and there’d be an ache in my chest and I didn’t know why. So as I sit on the edge my bed, beer in hand, and listen to the fireworks go off around me—the cheers as hundreds of people bring in the New Year—I can’t even find it in myself to look forward to the next day, let alone three hundred and sixty-five of them.