I can’t believe I lashed out at her while she was battered and pouring out the truth to me. The only truth she has spoken in over four years. I knew she would be fine physically, I had checked and double-checked with the doctors. I don’t know why she thinks she needed to leave her mark on me, and our child would have been the only way to do that. She is forever wound into my soul. How did she ever think I would be able to purge myself of her? I didn’t need a baby, or empty promises, I just needed her. She let me believe year after year that I was what broke her, that I destroyed us, when all along it was her. Her damn naïveté and the fact that she always worried that she loved me more. I loved her before I knew what love meant. Sure, you say it to your parents from the time you’re able to repeat the words they say to you; but to truly experience the word love. I never did until I loved Phoebe. Even that word seems inadequate, but there’s no stronger emotion. Love is supposed to be the end all be all word to describe how you feel, and in truth those four letters don’t even scratch the surface of how I felt about her.
