The hurt on his face cut at my soul, but the words kept pouring from my mouth. I could not stop—I prayed I’d stop, but it was like a whole other me had taken control and I was only a passenger, a witness.
I think back to that a lot, to that night. Little things stand out. The pattern of the curtains, the missing molding, the draft. There was a draft in the house. The cold fingers of winter kept tickling my neck.
How his face—not with tears, not anger, but sorrow, pain. I cannot forget that face.
Tale Told 