“How are you holding up, sweetheart?” I felt the touch of _________hand on my shoulder as the breeze of the California coast sent shivers down my spine. Her words feel safe, like I was six years old and ready to climb into my mother’s lap for a gentle bedtime story.
I answered ________’s question in a way that was somewhat honest but not so honest that it made her uncomfortable. I had learned to tailor my pain to meet others’ needs perfectly. “I’m doing ok. I’m doing my best. My eyes started to water as I waited for what I was sure would be the empathetic response I so desperately needed.
“Well, we are all disappointed in how you are handling this.” This being the death of Ronan. I felt my stomach drop to the floor. This no longer felt like the safety of my mother’s lap. Her careless words discombobulated me as I tried to absorb what she had just said. What was I doing that was so wrong?
___________ words continued as she said, “Your heart is black and ugly, and it’s going to remain that way until you find some peace around this. We are all at peace over what has happened, and the fact that you are not is deeply concerning. We love you and hope you learn to accept that this was God’s plan and that Ronan is where he belongs.”
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