Old wounds reopen
The letter had stirred up old wounds for me—thoughts I had long buried resurfaced with grappling intensity.
I remembered the night she left, the confusion and heartache in my children’s eyes. The guilt I shouldered for not being enough.
Each memory was a sharp needle, pricking the surface just as I started to feel whole again. Yet, I knew I couldn’t avoid the situation.
My children deserved transparency, however painful.
