Her mother is always tired now. Always with that excuse. There’s little joy to be had here. Learning practiced lines predictably old. Expressions of complaint ever at the ready. Happiness will happen elsewhere. Sick now, one ailment begats another. Either under the pile, which is the norm, Or standing topside boasting in the spotlight. “My father’s a doctor.” Finds its way to many conversations…
The original abandonment and zero awareness of the addiction to the attention required.
I am the middle The safety zone Waiting Question The calm The Quiet I am your Daddy I am not a Doctor
I am here my Love.