I went to my mother's house yesterday. I needed to escape into her world, the world of my childhood. Of pretty lace and antique books. Of Chanel number five and soft lamplight.
Where no one yells about shit left around or laundry in the dryer unfolded.
I'll admit it was wonderful. And I didn't jump or tense up once. I was able to relax.
So this morning I had to decide to stay another day, or come back home.
I came home.
Because after all the madness and quiet rage there is still an endless wealth of love.
I'm many things. But at the end of the day I'm a wife who loves her husband.
It's just sometimes... No, most times... I wish he could see past the chaos into my heart. I'm convinced that if he could feel it-- the enormous love-- he wouldn't need so much control over things that can not be controlled. Because he'd know he was safe. And then I'd be safe too.
* I read a wonderful and painful post today that echoed my own feelings. Please visit!