dykechildress
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Karen swallows. “Since Ted passed… I know people expect me to still be sad. And I am. I am. But sometimes it’s not grief. Sometimes it’s just… empty. And then I feel guilty because what kind of person feels relieved that their husband is gone?”
Joyce’s eyes soften. She reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from Karen’s cheek in a way so familiar it aches.
“You’re not a bad person,” she says. “You’re a person who was tired. You carried everything. Alone.”