During Robert’s Funeral, My Sons Stood By The Casket With Dry Eyes And Perfect Black Suits…

me to say it, but it’s true. A mother doesn’t stop remembering the child just because the man turned into a monster. Sometimes I dream of Richard at five years old, asleep in my lap. Of Harrison running through the yard, shouting that he wanted to be a firefighter. I wake up, and it physically hurts to realize those boys don’t exist anymore.

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