How many times have I asked myself if I should do more? Push more? Tell someone? Demand something be done? How many times?
But you always tell me that you are okay, not to interfere, to let you forget it. You tell me you can handle it. You remind me you’ve lived with him for eighteen years, so yes, you can handle a few more months. I tell you that I understand, but I don’t. Not really. You don’t deserve this. You are a shining light and he, he is black death, plaguing you, plaguing me.
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