Music blares, reverberating through the rooms, propelled by instruments not meant to soothe the soul. His choice as always. Same old, same old. The odor of the sole they ate last night wafts through the house, stinks of resentment. The morning's rays strike her hands, wrinkled paper, proof that this is her last chance for something precious
Their arguments have grown stale, pitiful and in vain. She's made up her mind. Her choice, not his. The child will live. It will be hers.
She continues rolling her clothes in neat little packages, leaving the smells and sounds behind
Their arguments have grown stale, pitiful and in vain. She's made up her mind. Her choice, not his. The child will live. It will be hers.
She continues rolling her clothes in neat little packages, leaving the smells and sounds behind
