There is no place as lonely as a marriage.
I sleep in the spare room of my own house: a spare person. The sadness of this month aches like a pain, tugs at me like stitches pulling in a wound. Some of this hurt might feel better with some kind words or a hug, but there is no such thing to be had.
I move through my life like a sleepwalker, although at night I do not sleep. I am troubled with nightmares, with panic. I creep around in the dark to check my girls are safe, and check again, and check again.
In the daytime I check, and check, and check my phone. My little one is in the Highest Risk Category. It feels like the part in Lawrence of Arabia where he thinks he can make a difference, but it only postpones an inevitable fate. It is written.
What is written for her? Can I change the story? Can she change it? Does it have a happy ending? Or a tragic one?
I feel desperate in every way. I have no idea how to live with this fear.
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