King Wilhelm;
The memory bleeds back into the present, and my chest burns like I just ran miles.
A tear slides down my face, and my vision blurs.
Pathetic.
I've been crying a lot these past few days. Some king I'm becoming.
I scrub my face with shaking hands, furious with myself for still bleeding over wounds that never close. For still hearing their voices when night or day grows too quiet.
"I did my best," I whisper to the empty room as if they would hear.
Even if they did, they would never believe me.
They made their choice. They chose the mother who left them. The woman who started families with other men and ditched them when things got uncomfortable.
They chose to believe HER over the man who gave his life just to see them grow.
She told them I was an abuser, and they believed it. Me! The father NEVER hit them. Not once!
Emotionally and physically, I never hurt my girls. Yet…
I resume pacing, faster now, as agitation crawls under my skin like ants.
