She’d never regretted that she hadn’t stayed, that evening before he’d died. It was not life, that count down to death, and she hadn’t wanted to be a part of it. He’d been asleep, and she didn’t think she could stand it, watching him struggle for breath, selfishly wanting it to be over, to put it all behind her.
Months later, she found that without the anger, the worry, the fear, the need to be of use -- all inextricably linked to him -- she was just an empty shell, of that he’d wanted her to be, but she wasn’t.
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