I can cry easier for my kids than for myself. They’ll say something simple. Missing mom. Wanting her. Asking a question that has no good answer. And instantly I’m there. Open. Flooded. But my own stuff sometimes stays jammed up behind anger or numbness or exhaustion until some random object or song picks the lock. Maybe that’s because their grief is so pure it bypasses all my defenses. Or maybe because watching them carry this feels like the cruelest part of the whole thing.
The Wall
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