The mantle above my fireplace holds two framed photographs and a greeting card propped between them. On the left: a group of friends—the A-List we call ourselves because we started in Level A at Second City and went through the entire 2-year program from beginning to end together—laughing, arms around each other, the kind of photo where everyone looks exactly like themselves. These are people who knew me when I met Ken—who loved him, mourned him, and then quietly, steadily ke

I didn’t expect my eyes to well up, but they did—fast and without warning, like a sudden summer storm you swear you didn’t see coming. It caught me off guard mostly because this wasn’t supposed to be that moment yet. It’s just a proof. Not the finished book. Not the one that gets stacked on tables or slid into bags at events or signed with a Sharpie that never quite works the first time. And still. Holding it in my hands made everything real in a way my brain hasn’t quite ca