Was it the moment I stormed out?
The second time I stormed out?
The day I brought the papers and then stormed out?
Why on Earth did he fight ending it? I wouldn't want to be a moment with that me.
A house of cards built on shifting sands over a troubled sea.
The sobbing hasn't gone away, but it's down to overflow spurts of dissolution.
Every last paragraph, sentence, comma is like an impacted wisdom tooth being torn away.
They don't give oxy for emotional pain.
Was it over when he signed? When I signed? Or will it take the last shreds of gasping, grasping composure?
I resolve to march forward into the uncertain future, with hope: the confident expectation of God's ultimate blessing. Both angry and relieved that I don't know what I'm facing.
Dignity, always dignity.