Small Life, Slow Life: 66/100 {It happens every time.}

It happens, every time. Just so you know.

I get my stuff together. I lace up my shoes. You come over to me, babble about something.

Eventually, it happens. I say, “Okay, I’m going to work. Can you give me a hug?” And you do.

That’s not the moment though. It’s five seconds later, when I stand up with my purse, and open the door to head to the garage. Your eyes register all of it then.

“Mommy going to work.”

It happens every time. I linger over the sight of your face. Your eyes register the loss of me. My eyes register the loss of you.

Every time, my heart breaks a little. Every time, it hurts.

I want this recorded here, because one day you’re going to tell yourself the outrageous lie that I don’t care about you, or that I wish you were different, or you’ll make up a lie that you’re unwanted/unnoticed.

And I just want you to know, no.

My heart has broken every time I’ve left your sight. Every single time, I pray it’s not the last time I’ll see your face.

Every time, I wish we were still together.

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