From the other room I can hear her nightmares. She whimpers and pleads, little girl voice: and I feel sorry for her.
Yet I'm unable to offer comfort. Our relationship is so strained we can barely talk trivialities. Anything important is beyond us.
Can this be changed? Given time and maturity and effort?
Perhaps in a kinder world. In ours, we run out of time, we fail to mature, and the effort is so exhausting that we set it aside.
I wonder if she had nightmares the night she died.