Rosin was a member of my writers’ group in Dublin—a woman in her forties, sturdy yet graceful, with auburn hair, a ready smile, and quick wit. Married to George, she was a stay-at-home mom to three teenagers. We bonded over our shared interests—poetry, crafts, and dogs. Every Saturday, right after the writers’ group meeting, I’d spend the afternoon at her house dunking digestives into milky Earl Grey, exploring the quirks of life, and laughing until we were both in tears. Her King Charles spaniel watched us from the rug in front of the fireplace, wagging its tail and occasionally peeing on the carpet because, at 15, it was mildly incontinent. I was going through a rough patch in my marriage at the time, which included domestic violence, financial struggles, and serious doubts about my self-worth. So I won’t deny that I was a bit envious. No, I was genuinely envious…
