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Wildmeme, Lawton, MI (2025)

04/08/2025

We had been married for 34 years, living our lives side by side. I always thought nothing could tear us apart, but everything we had built crumbled in just one week.

Thirty-four years—a lifetime spent together with my husband. I'm 60, and he's 66. I believed our marriage was an unbreakable fortress that had withstood the storms of life. We shared joy and sorrow, raised our children, and faced dreams and challenges together. I was convinced that nothing could separate us. But now, we stand on the brink of divorce, and everything I held as constant has shattered in mere days. It all began on a cold winter’s day when the snow outside our home in the countryside seemed just as icy as what was to come.

As usual, for Christmas, the kids brought over their dog while they dashed off to celebrate with friends. This time, my husband, David, suddenly announced he wanted to visit his hometown, a small, quaint village full of youthful memories. He said he missed his old friends and the streets where he was once happy. I didn’t object—let him go, clear his mind, and reminisce. But that trip marked the beginning of the end.

He returned a week later, and I could immediately sense something was off. His eyes had a distant look as if he had left a piece of himself back there. A few days after, he sat across from me at the kitchen table and, staring at the floor, uttered words that tore my heart apart: he wanted a divorce. I froze, disbelief ringing in my ears. Then the painful truth came rushing in like a poisonous tide. During his trip, he had met her—the woman from his past, his first love, whose shadow had apparently lingered silently over our lives. She had found him through social media, reached out, and suggested they meet—and he agreed.

This woman, Lisa, lived in that very village. They spent several days together, and David returned a changed man. He admitted she had captivated him. He said being around her made him feel light and free, as if shedding the burdens of decades. She had changed since those distant times; now she teaches yoga, runs wellness seminars, and exudes peace and harmony. Lisa convinced him that he deserved a different life—without routine, without me. She promised him happiness and inner peace, which, according to him, he had not found in our marriage. Each of his words felt like a knife stabbing deeper and more painfully each time.

I tried to reach out to him, to remind him of our 34 years, our children, our home that we built together, brick by brick. But he looked at me coldly, unyieldingly, and told me, "I'm suffocating here. I need change to feel alive again." His voice shook with determination, and I felt the ground disappear beneath me. All that I had known, all I believed in, collapsed in an instant due to some sudden impulse, due to a woman who stormed into our lives like a hurricane.

I was shattered. My heart was breaking with pain; tears choked me, but I couldn’t keep him—he was already gone, even as he stayed. Our home, full of memories, became a graveyard of the past for…📖 Read the continuation in the comments ⬇️

04/08/2025

My son was my friend and support throughout my life. But after the wedding, we became strangers.

I never imagined my child could change so much under someone else's influence. My only son, Alex, was always a golden boy—polite, kind, and ready to help. That's how he grew up, and that's how he remained as an adult. We were inseparable until he got married; we saw each other often, talked for hours about everything, shared our troubles and joys, and helped each other. Of course, within reasonable limits—I didn't intrude into his life excessively. But everything fell apart when she came into his life—Emma.

At their wedding, Emma and Alex received a gift from her parents—a one-bedroom flat in the heart of London, freshly renovated. It became their own little nest. I never visited them there, but my son showed me photos on his phone: bright walls, new furniture, cozy. After my husband passed away, I was left with no savings, so I decided to give the young couple almost all my jewelry—gold chains, rings, earrings that I had been collecting for years. I told Emma, "If you want to melt them down, I don't mind." I wanted to do something good for them, support them as they started their life together.

But Emma... She showed her true self right away. A woman with a sharp character. I noticed how she peeked into the envelopes with money they received as wedding gifts—curious about how much there was. It made me uneasy. On one hand, such determination could make her a good wife, but on the other hand, one had to be cautious with her. Modern women often see their husbands as wallets, spend their money like it's their own, and then divorce, take half, and look for new prey. I don't wish such a fate for Alex, but this worry gnaws at me.

Six months after the wedding, Emma declared that she didn't want children just yet. Not now, she said, with their cramped flat, it wasn't possible. She threw up her hands and said, "What can we do? I don't want to take out a mortgage, and I don't know when we'll be able to afford a bigger place. Alex isn't a big boss yet." She was thinking out loud, but I heard calculation in her voice. I live in a house that my late husband started building. It stands unfinished, with holes in the walls. In winter, it's as cold as a refrigerator—my pension isn't enough to heat the whole place. And then Emma suggested, "Sell the house, buy yourself a small flat, and give us the rest for a new place. Then we can think about having kids."

Can you see what that means? She wants me, old and weak, to move into a tiny cell so they can take the best of everything. And later, who knows, they might even take that small flat away from me and send me to a care home. At first, I thought of agreeing—if only they would help me with money once a month. But now? No way! With someone like Emma, you have to be on guard—you never know what to expect.

After that conversation, Alex visited me a few times. He hinted that the idea wasn't so bad: "Why do you need such a big house? It'd be easier in a flat, the bills would be lower." I stood my ground: "The city is growing, in 5-10 years the properties will be worth more. My land is no longer the outskirts, selling now would be foolish." Once, I suggested swapping. They could move into my house, and I'd take their flat. After all, it's the same, right? But Emma balked. She didn't like that the house needed repairs and investment while I would live care-free in their gifted flat. She needs comfort, even if my option is more beneficial. She's like that—and there's nothing you can do about it.

Then I fell ill. Seriously, to the bone. I lay in bed, unable to get up—fever, cough, pounding headache. I called Alex, begged him to come, bring food and medicine. I knew the young couple had little time, but I couldn't even manage to make tea. I used to imagine he would drop everything and rush to me. But now? He showed up only the next day. He made me some powdered "Theraflu," tossed a pack of aspirin on the table—without a box, probably expired—shrugged, and left. Thank goodness a friend saved me—brought soup, medicine, everything I needed. But what if she hadn't been there? What… 📖 Read the continuation in the comments ⬇️

04/08/2025

I stayed with him until his last breath. But his children pushed me away as if I were a stranger.

When I met Anthony, I was already 56. He was a widower, and I was a divorced woman with wounded feelings and faded dreams. Life had tossed both of us around a good deal, and we were simply seeking warmth. The kind that is quiet and secure, without promises or grand gestures.

We spent eleven years together. Eleven peaceful years filled with simple joys: late breakfasts, morning trips to the market, tea by the fireplace. We never quarreled or had arguments; we were just there for each other. His adult children were polite to me but distant. I didn’t interfere or impose — they were his family, not mine.

Everything changed when the doctors diagnosed Anthony with a terrible illness: cancer. The disease left him no chance — an aggressive form, relentless in its progression. I became his eyes, his hands, his breath. I lifted him when he could no longer walk, fed him, treated his bedsores, and comforted him during moments of pain. I held his hand when he struggled for breath. The nurses would say, “You're incredible. Not everyone would endure this, even family.” But I didn’t see it as a heroic act. I simply loved him.

One of the last nights, he squeezed my hand and whispered, “Thank you… my love…”

And by morning, he was gone.

The funeral was a reserved affair. His children organized everything. I was only allowed to attend. No one asked me to say anything, thanked me, or offered help. I didn’t expect it. Although the house where we lived was ours, Anthony never transferred his part to me. Yet he always assured, “I've sorted everything; they know you’ll stay here.”

A week after the funeral, the solicitor called. All his assets, absolutely everything, went to his children. My name was nowhere to be found.

“But we lived together for eleven years…” I whispered into the phone. “I understand,” he replied dryly. “But on paper, you’re nobody.”

A few days later, they came to the door. His eldest daughter looked at me with a steely face and said coldly, “Dad’s gone. You’re not needed anymore. You have a week to move out.”

I was speechless. Everything I cherished was in that house. The books I read to him aloud. The flowers we planted in the garden. His old mug he only drank from when I poured the tea. My favorite chipped cup he had mended. Everything that was life to me, left behind the door I was told to close forever.

I rented a tiny room in a shared house. Started cleaning other people's homes — not for the money, but to stay sane. To feel needed somewhere, anywhere. Do you know what frightened me the most? It wasn't the loneliness. Worse was the feeling of being erased. As if I had never existed. Just a shadow in someone else's home. A home where I had once been the light.

But I am not a shadow. I existed. I loved. I held his hand in the hardest times. I was there as he left this world.

Nevertheless, life is governed by documents. By surnames, blood relations, and wills. But there’s also something else: warmth. Care. Devotion. Things that documents don’t show. And if just one of them, standing… 📖 Read the continuation in the comments ⬇️

04/08/2025

Oliver ran into his ex-wife, and his cheeks practically turned green with envy. He slammed the fridge door shut with such force that everything inside rattled. One of the magnets fell off and clattered to the floor.

Helen stood across from him, pale with clenched fists.
"Feeling better now?" she exhaled, raising her chin.
"You've just worn me out," Oliver snapped, though he tried to keep calm. "What kind of life is this? No joy, no future."
"So, it's my fault again?" Helen retorted bitterly. "Nothing's ever like your dream world."

Oliver wanted to say more but just waved his hand. He opened a bottle of mineral water, took a swig, and set it down on the table.
"Oliver, don't keep silent," Helen's voice trembled. "Why don't you just tell me what's wrong?"

"What's there to say?" he smirked. "I'm fed up with it all. To heck with it!"
They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Finally, Helen sighed deeply and headed to the bathroom. Oliver sank onto the couch heavily. The sound of running water echoed from behind the door—Helen probably turned on the tap to drown out her own tears. But he didn't care.

A Life Turned Routine

They had been married for three years. Initially, they lived in Helen's flat, a gift from her parents, then moved to a country house, transferring the flat to their daughter. They lived in a spacious yet outdated space with furniture reminiscent of a bygone era. At first, Oliver was pleased: city center, conveniently close to work. But slowly, it started to grate on him. Helen loved her "family fortress" with brown wallpaper and an antique buffet, a family heirloom. Oliver saw it as stagnation.

"Helen, be honest," he would often say. "Don't you want to replace this awful yellow linoleum? Modernize this place?"
"Oliver, we can't afford the renovations right now," she'd calmly reply. "I want changes too, but we need to wait for the bonus."
"Wait?! That's your philosophy—endure and wait!"
Oliver often reminisced about falling in love with Helen. Back then, she was a modest student; her genuine blue eyes and gentle smile captivated him. He would tell his friends, “She’s a bud that's yet to bloom.” But now it seemed that the flower never opened and had already withered.

Helen didn't see herself as unremarkable. She lived as she pleased, finding joy in small things—a cup of peppermint tea, a fresh napkin, a peaceful evening with a book. But Oliver only saw stagnation and monotony.

They weren't rushing to divorce—Oliver didn't want to return to his parents, and living separately wasn't an option. Helen's mother, Mary Evans, always sided with her daughter-in-law:

"Son, Helen's a good girl. Be thankful you have a flat."
"Mum, you just don't get it!" Oliver would grumble.
His father only waved a hand:
"Let him sort it out himself."
At home, Oliver grew increasingly distant: "She’s like a shadow, a grey ghost…" he thought. During one argument, he exclaimed:
"I once saw a beautiful flower in you! And what now? I'm living with a frozen bud..."

Helen cried for the first time in months. On the day everything finally fell apart, Oliver quietly said:
"Helen, I'm exhausted."
"From what?" she asked.
"This life, this endless routine."

Helen picked up her bag and left. Oliver hoped she would return and ask him to stay, but she walked out calmly:
"Maybe it's best for you to live alone. Move out."
Oliver exploded:
"I'm not leaving!"
"This is my parents' house," Helen said coldly. "And I don't want to live with someone who sees me as a burden."
With no choice left, Oliver moved out. A few weeks later, their divorce was finalized.

A Meeting That Changed Everything

Three years passed. Oliver still lived with his parents, trying to start anew, but luck didn't favor him. His job offered little money, and only small joys grew.

One spring evening, while strolling down the street, he passed a café and, peeking through the window, froze in place. Standing at the entrance was Helen.

But this wasn’t the Helen he remembered. An assured woman stood before him, with a stylish haircut, an elegant coat, and a set of car keys in hand.

"Helen?" Oliver said in amazement.
She turned, recognized him, and smiled.
"Oliver? Hello! How are you?"
"Uh… okay," he stammered, unable to take…
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04/07/2025

The son with his wife kicked the old father out of his own home. The elderly man was already near freezing when a paw touched his face.

William sat on an icy bench in a park somewhere outside Manchester, shivering from the biting cold. The wind howled like a hungry wolf, snow fell in flakes, and the night seemed like an endless black abyss. He stared into the void before him, unable to grasp how he, a man who had built his own house with his own hands, found himself cast out onto the street, like useless clutter.

Just a few hours ago, he was within the walls he had known all his life. But his son, Anthony, looked at him with icy indifference, as if he were a stranger, not his father.

"Dad, it's getting cramped with Sarah and me," he said without batting an eye. "And you're not getting any younger. A retirement home or a rented room might be better for you. You have your pension..."

Sarah, his daughter-in-law, stood by, nodding silently as if it was the most natural decision in the world.

"But... this is my home..." William's voice trembled, not from the cold, but from the agony of betrayal tearing him apart.

"You signed everything over to me," Anthony shrugged with such cold detachment that William gasped. "The documents are signed, Dad."

And at that moment, the old man realized he had nothing left.

He didn't argue. Pride or despair—something made him turn and leave, leaving behind everything he held dear.

Now he sat in the darkness, wrapped in an old coat, his thoughts tangled: how did it come to this that he trusted his son, raised him, gave him everything, and in the end, became a burden? The chill seeped into his bones, but the pain in his soul was greater.

And then he felt a touch.

A warm, furry paw gently rested on his frozen hand.

Before him stood a dog—large, shaggy, with kind, almost human eyes. It looked at William intently, then nudged his palm with a wet nose, as if whispering, "You're not alone."

"Where did you come from, buddy?" the old man whispered, holding back the tears rising in his throat.

The dog wagged its tail and gently tugged at the edge of his coat with its teeth.

"What are you up to?" William was surprised, but his voice no longer had the same despair.

The dog persistently tugged, and the old man, sighing heavily, decided to follow. What did he have to lose?

They walked through several snow-covered streets when ahead of them, the door of a small house opened. A woman wrapped in a warm shawl stood in the doorway.

"Barney! Where have you been, you rascal?!" she began, but froze when she noticed the shivering old man. "Oh, my... Are you all right?"

William wanted to say he'd manage, but only a hoarse groan came out.

"You're freezing! Come inside quickly!" She grabbed his hand and almost dragged him into the house.

William awoke in a warm room. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and something sweet—probably cinnamon rolls. It took a moment for him to realize where he was, but warmth spread through his body, pushing away the cold and fear.

"Good morning," came a gentle voice.

He turned. The woman who had rescued him the night before stood in the doorway with a tray in her hands.

"My name's Helen," she smiled. "And yours?"

"William..."

"Well then, William," her smile widened, "my Barney doesn't usually bring anyone home. You're lucky."

He gave a faint smile back.

"I don't know how to thank you..."

"Tell me how you ended up on the street in this cold," she requested, setting the tray on the table.

William hesitated. But there was such genuine concern in Helen's eyes that he found himself sharing everything: about the home, his son, and the betrayal by those he lived for.

When he finished, silence hung heavily in the room.

"Stay with me," Helen suddenly said.

William looked at her, full of surprise.

"What?"

"I live alone, just me and Barney. I could use some company, and you need a home."

"I... don't …
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04/07/2025

I sacrificed everything for my daughter's happiness, yet instead of gratitude, I faced betrayal.

After my daughter's wedding, she and her husband didn't have their own place. I understood how important it was for young couples to have their own home, so I made a significant decision. I moved out of my cozy two-bedroom house in a small village near Bath and went to live with my mother, giving my daughter and her husband everything I had. I gave up my comfort so that my daughter could start a new life with a clean slate. It was my gift to her—a gift I believed she would appreciate.

I raised her on my own after my husband passed away and left me with our eight-year-old daughter. Life was hard, but I had no choice—I had to ensure she stood on her own feet. My mother was always by our side, my guardian angel, and without her, I might have succumbed to the loneliness and endless worries. Together, we persevered, and step by step, year after year, my daughter grew up, graduated from university in London, and met her love—Richard. The wedding should have been a joyful occasion for all of us.

Initially, I considered taking my mother in and giving the young couple her cramped one-bedroom flat, but I changed my mind. My two-bedroom house was more spacious, brighter, and cozier—it seemed like the best start for them. I handed it over with an open heart, hoping for a shred of gratitude, a touch of respect for my sacrifice. But instead, a nightmare unfolded that I couldn't have foreseen.

Richard’s mother, Margaret, soon after the wedding, came to me with a brazen request: "When will you renovate the place? The young ones don’t have the funds, and the house is old—it needs sprucing up before they move in." I was taken aback. My home was clean, well-maintained, warm—sure, without the latest wallpapers or designer touches, but is that what truly matters? I restrained my anger and coolly suggested, "If it's so important, why not pay for the renovation yourselves? You’re parents too, you could contribute." She sneered, "I'm not spending money on someone else's property!" Her words cut deeply, but I stayed silent. I did a minor cosmetic update at my own expense, packed my things, and moved in with my mother, leaving the young couple my home. I stayed out of their lives, never imposing—only visiting when invited, respecting their boundaries. I understand personal space, and didn't want to be that meddling mother-in-law.

Meanwhile, Margaret almost seemed to move in with them. She ran my former home as if it were her own, and it increasingly wore on my nerves.

Before Christmas, I went shopping and decided to buy a lot of groceries to share with my daughter, Lucy—to make her happy and show support. The bags were heavy, my hands were aching, and I couldn't reach my phone to give her a heads up. I decided to stop by unannounced—after all, I’m her mother! I unlocked the door with my key, stepped inside, and froze. In the kitchen, at my old table, sat Margaret leisurely sipping tea. Before her lay a sheet of paper with a holiday menu neatly written with notes. It hit me: they were getting ready to celebrate Christmas together. Lucy and Richard had invited her and his parents, but not me or my mother. We were simply excluded.

A wave of pain swept over me, as cold as an icy wind. I stood there,…
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04/07/2025

The man of my dreams left his wife for me, but I had no idea what that decision would bring.

I had been infatuated with him since our college days, living in a small town near York. It was a blind, head-over-heels kind of love that made me forget everything else. When he finally noticed me, I lost what little sense I had left. This happened years after university when fate brought us together in a law firm. The same profession and mutual interests made me believe this wasn’t just coincidence but a sign from above, my fairy tale about to become reality.

To me, he seemed like the man of dreams. The fact that he had a wife didn’t bother me when I was young—I didn’t know what it was like when a marriage falls apart or understand the pain hidden in such stories. I felt no shame when Oliver left his wife for me. Who could have thought that this choice would lead to such heartache? The saying is true: you can’t build happiness on someone else’s misfortune.

When he chose me, I was on cloud nine, ready to forgive him anything. But in everyday life, he was far from a prince. His scattered belongings took over the flat; he refused to do dishes, and all the household responsibilities fell on me like a heavy burden. Back then, I overlooked it all—love blinded me, making me soft, yielding, almost helpless.

He quickly forgot about his previous marriage as if it had been erased from memory. They didn’t have kids, and as he confessed, the wedding was her parents' idea. "With you, it's different; you are my destiny," he whispered, and I melted. My happiness was bright but short-lived, like a flash of lightning. Everything changed when I became pregnant.

At first, Oliver was overjoyed—a child, his child! We threw a big family celebration, inviting relatives and friends. Toasts, wishes of happiness, health for the baby—that evening remained a bright spot in my memory, a warm island in a sea of coming darkness. I don’t regret it, but after that night, my blind love began to fade like a candle in the wind.

As my belly grew, I saw less of Oliver at home. I went on maternity leave, and our meetings shrank to late evenings. He stayed late at work, vanished at office parties. At first, I endured it, but soon it became unbearable. Household life turned into torture: I, heavily pregnant, struggled to move, while his socks and shirts lay around silently mocking my naïveté. I kept asking myself if we had rushed things with the baby. Love cools over time, I knew that, but I didn’t expect it to evaporate so quickly.

He still brought flowers, chocolates, but that wasn’t what I needed—I wanted him close, his support, his warmth. Then the truth surfaced. A chance conversation with colleagues over coffee opened my eyes: a new employee had joined the department, young and spirited. The team was already stretched thin, and my maternity leave had made the situation critical. Coincidence? I didn't know, but Oliver clearly had someone else. His life now consisted of "work," "meetings," and "urgent engagements." One day, I found a note with unfamiliar initials in his jacket pocket. My heart clenched, but I quietly put it back, deciding to pretend blindness. The fear of being alone at seven months pregnant paralyzed me.

He began to complain that I was "constantly on edge," and every argument ended in his weary sigh, as if I were a burden. I was too scared to bring up the main issue—I knew it was the end. And it came. The most dreadful words I heard were: "I’m not ready for kids. I have someone else." How he said it, I don’t remember; my head buzzed, my world collapsed. I thought I would go insane with pain and humiliation.

But I found the strength within myself. I filed for divorce, even though every letter on that document felt like a stab to my heart. He didn’t expect me to have the guts to throw his things out the very next day. Thank goodness the flat was rented—there was no property to split.

"And the child? Think of the child! How will you raise him?" he tossed at me.

"I'll manage. I'll work from home. And my parents will help. Mum always said you were a womanizer; I should have listened," I shot back, slamming the door.

The responsibility for my son gave me a backbone I never knew I had. Alone, I wouldn’t have left, but for him—I did. His betrayal was so treacherous that I erased Oliver from my life as if he had never existed. My eyes opened, and I saw his true self.

The first months after the divorce, including the birth, were hell. I returned to my parents' place in a nearby town—they welcomed me with open arms, especially delighted with their grandson. I missed Oliver but pushed those thoughts away. Deep down, I knew I had done the right thing and would give my son everything I could.

As soon as I regained my strength, I resumed work—translating legal texts from home. There were months without income, but my parents supported me until I had clients. My son grew, years flew by unnoticed. I realized it when I knew he needed his own space. My parents were reluctant to let us go, but I dreamed of independence—a study for me, his own room for school. By then, I could afford to rent a flat.

Life got back on track. Nursery…
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04/07/2025

My former husband made a promise to our son to give him a flat, but there was one condition—he insisted I must marry him again.

I am sixty years old and live in Norwich. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that after everything that’s happened, twenty years of silence, the past would intrude into my life with such audacity and cynicism. And the most painful part is that the one to bring this back into my life is none other than my own son.

Once, at twenty-five, I was madly in love. James—tall, charming, and cheerful—seemed like a dream come true. We married quickly and had our son, Oliver, a year later. Those first years felt like a fairy tale. We lived in a small flat, dreamed together, and made plans for our future. I worked as a teacher, and he was an engineer. I believed nothing could shatter our happiness.

However, over time, James began to change. He started coming home late more often, lying, and growing distant. I tried not to believe the rumors, ignored the late nights, the scent of someone else's perfume. But eventually, it became undeniable: he was unfaithful, and not just once. Friends, neighbors, even my parents knew. Yet, I tried to keep the family together for our son’s sake. I endured too long, hoping he'd come to his senses. But one night, when he didn’t come home, I woke up and knew I couldn't go on.

I packed our belongings, took five-year-old Oliver by the hand, and went to my mother’s house. James didn’t even try to stop us. A month later, he moved abroad, supposedly for work. Soon, he found another woman and effectively erased us from his life. No letters, no calls. Complete indifference. And so I was left on my own. My mother passed away, then my father. Oliver and I faced everything together—the school years, clubs, illnesses, joys, his graduation. I worked triple shifts, ensuring he wanted for nothing. I didn't pursue my personal life—there was no time. He meant everything to me.

When Oliver got into university in York, I supported him however I could—sending parcels, money, encouragement. But buying a flat was beyond my reach. He never complained. He insisted he could manage on his own. I was proud of him.

A month ago, he visited with news: he planned to get married. My joy was short-lived. He seemed nervous, avoiding eye contact, then finally blurted out:

“Mum… I need your help. It’s about Dad.”

I was stunned. He explained he’d recently reconnected with James, who returned to England and offered Oliver the keys to a two-bedroom flat inherited from his grandmother. But—there was a catch. I must remarry him and allow him to live in my flat.

I was breathless. I couldn’t believe my son was serious. He continued:

“You're on your own… you have no one else. Why not give it another shot? For me, for my future family. Dad's changed…”

I rose silently and walked into the kitchen. Kettle, tea, trembling hands. Everything blurred before me. For twenty years, I carried the weight alone. Twenty years, and he never once checked on us. And now, he returns… with “an offer.”

Returning to the room, I calmly said:

“No. I won’t agree to it.”

Oliver flared up. He yelled, accused me. Said I’d always thought only of myself. That because of me, he lacked a father. That now I’m ruining his life again. I stayed silent. Each word pierced my heart. He didn’t know the late nights from exhaustion. How I sold my engagement ring to buy him a winter coat. How I went without, so he could eat well.

I don’t feel lonely. My life may have been hard, but it’s been honest. I have my job, my books, my garden, my friends. I…
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Wildmeme

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