I am sorry. That seems like the proper way to begin.
I fear you, as I fear what I have done to you. I dream of you, sometimes. They are images that only contain an overwhelming potency, so long as I have my eyes closed. Your memory is an obstacle. It would make me a kinder woman to say that I loved you. In my own way, I did. But it proved difficult to accept you in full, because I loathe the man who gave of himself to form you, though it was no sacrifice. It was not a noble gift.
You chose me foolishly, Margaret.
Often, I push things away out of fear, not necessity. I wonder if this is why I made the decision to let you go. Perhaps, if you were here, the echo would have disappeared. We could have devoured the loneliness together. But that isn’t the way it works.
Despite the pain, I made the correct decision. You are everywhere. I am here. We are where we need to be.