I turn and look at them, at both halves of my heart, cuddled tightly together in a bed of irony.

As much as I want it to empty. I’m worried that feelings are the one thing in our lives that we have absolutely no control over.

Truths are written, never said... Lines are drawn, but then they fade.

We all have a limit. What we’re willing to put up with before we break. When I married your father, I knew exactly what my limit was. But slowly . . . with every incident . . . my limit was pushed a little more. And a little more. The first time your father hit me, he was immediately sorry. He swore it would never happen again. The second time he hit me, he was even more sorry. The third time it happened, it was more than a hit. It was a beating. And every single time, I took him back. But the fourth time, it was only a slap. And when that happened, I felt relieved. I remember thinking, ‘At least he didn’t beat me this time. This wasn’t so bad.’ 

There are people you meet that you get to know, and then there are people you meet that you already know.