“We were just having a conversation about what she would change if she could do this all over again.”
he looked at me in that calculating way, savouring the moment. Like there was a pleasure in delivering something that only served to cause pain. As if he felt there was righteousness in chipping at my self-worth, never letting me build it back up.
I was prepared. He got nothing from me because I knew the answer years before it came out of his mouth. I felt it before he ever put it into words.
“If she could change it…She wouldn’t have had you.”
I am a product of regret. I will never have to explain that feeling again.
The art of spilling over 