There's an article in the newspaper telling you so. With a
photo, no less.
Okay, so in retrospect, maybe there were other signs that
all was not well in Annabelle Essex's eighteen-year-old
marriage. Now she had to take stock of her life.
She had a wonderful son in college. A job she hated. And a
meddlesome sister who insisted that this crisis was really
an opportunity in disguise. After all, Annabelle had some
dreams left: Paris (she'd always wanted to go) and art
(she was a closet painter). So said sister enrolled her in
a contest: winner gets a three-month artist-in-residence
fellowship in the City of Light. Annabelle was horrified.
She couldn't just give up, could she? Trade in the job she
hated for three months in the city she'd never stopped
dreaming about? Besides, she'd never win it.
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