At 46, I’ve made some sense of my life by thinking about it as a story of second chances. If my evil twin were the author, it would be a string of dead ends — of not being a good enough writer, mother, wife, daughter, friend, teacher, sister (the list is endless). But I see my life as an endorsement of second chances. Almost everything that defines me happened because I failed and then tried again. My first marriage was an early one. I was 23, lacking all confidence, and had moved to London for... Read this story
