Three years had come and gone—our time in New York City was coming to an end. The project my husband, Max, was working had wrapped. Our youngest son had graduated high school and moved back to Tennessee to continue his education, to work on building his career, to be nearer to his brother and the friends he had grown up with throughout his youth. I had written a set of life experience vignettes about our move, our time, our experiences in the City, as well as having completed two novels. It was time to move on to the next thing. 

I was ever so grateful for the opportunity to live in New York City—experience the city life, learn the eccentricities, the ins and outs of one of the greatest cities in the world. That all said, I was ready to move. While I adapted and adjusted to such a different way of living, I was growing anxious to return to the way of life I had become accustomed to over the years.

We were onto Raleigh, North Carolina—though not for long. From the onset of acceptance, we understood Max would be contracted for a period of three to six months. I wasn’t sure where we would go next, but I loved being back in the south, if only for a short time.

We settled ourselves for the brief stay in an area perfect for the situation. North Hills was in midtown Raleigh and offered a variety of mixed development. The rental was small but furnished with everything we would need to get us through a few months. Shops offering daily necessities and services, restaurants, a theater, even a dog park were all within walking distance of our temporary residence.

We established a new routine. Up by seven, I’d throw on some workout clothes and head to the establishment’s lobby to grab coffee. Upon my return, Max would be emerging from the shower. Caffeinated and ready for the day, Lizzy (our dog) and I would drive Max to work then begin our day.

Prior to Max accepting this particular consulting gig, I had finished a novel and so my time was spent (to no avail) querying agents and small publishers. To break the redundancy of the process, Lizzy and I would take long walks around the North Hills area. It was during one such stroll I came to realize, I was in the perfect situation to gather intel as well as inspiration. And so, hoping to alleviate the discouragement that comes with the rejections of the querying process, I threw myself into planning the next novel.

Much to my great pleasure, our accommodations included an onsite gym and pool. As it happened, both amenities proved terrific spots for people watching—so many travelers coming and going, perfect for drawing character traits and conjuring life stories. I especially enjoyed watching the children interact with their parents. My boys were off doing their own thing, and since I had quit teaching some years earlier, few opportunities arose for me to engage with children. Talk about personalities—whew! These kids were keeping their guardians on toes.

Then came the instance that made me ask the question, the one all stories begin with, “What if?” As it happens, the event which prompted my question was a scenario featuring a mother whose child was in grave danger. Under no circumstances could the mother have believed that if she didn’t intervene the child would have been fine—it was quite the opposite in fact. The child would perish if the mother didn’t do something to help what appeared to be her only offspring. Yet, she was paralyzed into inaction, and I was not in a place to be of any aid as I watched from afar. Luckily, a good Samaritan came to the child’s rescue, and all was well in the end. But “what if” that outcome had been different? What if that mother had been by herself? What if the mother had saved the child, but the child didn’t want to be saved? What if the mother saved her child only to be ridiculed by society for her lack of attention and supervision? These questions continued to hang with me for days, and that was when I knew, I had to take a stab at answering them.