I cried in my car on the way home. Not graceful crying either. The ugly kind.

I’m going back next week. I think I’ll keep going. I don’t know what that means or what it makes me or whether I should have done it differently a long time ago.

I genuinely don’t know. Some days I think this is exactly what was supposed to happen and some days I think it’s forty-four years too late and we’re both just making the best of what’s left. Maybe both of those things are true. I’m not sure they can’t be.