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Every moment of my grief has been dissected, analyzed, judged. They watch me try to heal, they watch me try to breathe, they watch me try to live. My pain has become their entertainment, my tears their headlines.

Снаружи становится совсем хо́лодно, а дров для печки почти не осталось. Я стараюсь подбодрить ребят, хотя сама едва сдерживаю слёзы. Мы ждём хоть какой-то ве́сточки с фронта, но тишина вокруг пугает сильнее, чем свист вражеских пуль.

I can't believe he's done this to me again. The man at my door claims Mike owes him money, shows me photos I wish I hadn't seen. My hands are shaking as I grip the doorframe. "I'm not involved," I say, but we both know that's not true anymore.

The truth landed like shattered glass on my kitchen floor. His phone, forgotten on the counter, lit up with messages from her. Ten years of marriage, and I never knew he had a whole other life waiting in the wings. Like, subscribe if you've ever tasted betrayal.

Sometimes I look at these old photographs, and I barely recognize myself anymore. The centuries have changed me, little one. I try to hold onto who I am, for you. But time keeps slipping, like music fading into silence. Remember me as I am now.

I look at my kids and I just want to protect that innocence forever, you know? But then I stop and I really, really think about the strength it takes for so many mothers to keep going when the world feels so incredibly unsafe. It is just heart-wrenching to witness.

Сегодня опять думала об этом разговоре... Не могу принять его точку зрения, она меня раздражает. Как будто бы понимаю, что нужно быть терпимее, но что-то внутри сопротивляется. И снова эти мысли о том, правильно ли я поступаю, стоит ли вообще продолжать общение.

Я же лечила его