Less than an hour after the designated start time of our annual New Year’s Eve bash, the house is full and swinging. With each wave of arrivals, electrical outlets grow increasingly scarce as the impromptu band adds musicians.

Each year, between Christmas and New Year’s, it takes all Donovan and I can muster to avoid depression. Donovan combats the “cognitive reasoning that tells him he’s a screw up” by overloading on volunteer work. I throw myself into making cookies for homeless shelters and futz over this party. We also avoid talking to each other; thus, we haven’t spoken since before I read his letter.