There is no one in my life who cares for me excepting myself and my husband.
My daughter does not care if I am homeless, so long as she does not have to inconvenience herself with care of or for me.
My son never cared about me, for he assumed I cared not for him.
Both mistook my care in leaving as lack of care rather than understanding I cared enough to give them away rather than lead them into the street or hard time by my side.
I suppose it is easier to think this than to understand the nuance of caring more for the life experience of your children.
I suppose it is easier to think this than to understand I knew what I was unable to provide and thus, was willing to allow others to do what I could not.
I suppose it is easier to think this than to understand the weight and hopelessness of knowing how unable I was… and remain.
The reality that even my children only care if and when I can provide economic benefit to them is heavy and gets heavier with every year.
They have never understood me at all. So it is not surprising they do not care, as their own assumptions ever get in the way.
Heavy, heavy life.