Jess opens her door on Willcocks Street with a harassed look that I immediately recognize from when I was a young working mother — add one more thing to her overcrowded brain shelf and the whole works will come crashing down. It appears that I, a rumpled 71-year-old woman inexplicably ringing her doorbell on a doomsday hot Saturday afternoon, might be that one more thing.
“I used to own this house,” I smile to reassure her I’m not staggering to her door mid-stroke. I’m revisiting every place I’ve lived in this city, I quickly explain, as part of a series to see if where we live holds secrets to who we become. This pretty, semi-detached home, which I owned from 1992 to 2001, is the second-last stop on the tour.
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