autobiographical

Guarded, Aching and Silent

“I’m so sorry, but I just can’t.”

My heart is heavy, suddenly, cold shock rattles through me as I process what he’s saying. She’s not ready, his daughter. She’s just small but old enough to know what it means to lose his attention and focus. She’s not ready for anyone but her mother, who sadly, has passed and can never come back to them.

“I said I’d always be honest; she has to be my priority.”

Of course she does. He’s doing what’s right and it’s all the more painful because his heart is where it should be. She’s not ready, but clearly neither is he. There’s nothing to say, there’s no changing his mind as his little girl unravels. I would have loved to have known her. I would have loved to love them both, in time. That’s just a fleeting thought now. He’s gone and it’s done and I feel sad and sick and my heavy heart has retreated. It’s stowed away, wrapped in razor wire, sealed in ice.

Guarded. Aching. Silent.

 

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