You expect this to be slightly bitter, I suppose. I am, admittedly, a woman betrayed. I am a wife, a mother, a friend. Betrayed. Could I have written a word during the madness of that time, instead of now, when the ugliness is not real to anyone anymore, its presence of seething resentment not felt in real-time. I did try writing, oh those notes were from a madwoman. Fearful, caged, and always confused. You see, the idea of betrayal goes against the brilliance of our brain’s structure.

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