Two months. This week found me having yet another delightful time pinned to bed with the flu, the inside of my head lined with Marshmallow, wanting my mummy and missing my children all at once.
Back to square one, to the same obsessing questions: Why did T not say anything, not even try to address whatever he felt was wrong with us? Aren’t we worth fighting for? How can he think this is better? Is 9 am is too early for a double Bailey’s?
If any of you readers have been through similar experiences, how long was it before you were through with abject misery? Before you were able to let go?