I just teared up at an image of a woman breast-feeding. I never even breast-fed. It doesn't matter. It was that little hand wrapped around her finger, same as Baz does even today, hand in hand as we cross the street.
He won't always do that. I have to accept that. The times I push away, the times I wall off. I will never get those moments, those seconds, those fragments back.
I am so vulnerable, so weak.
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