I hear her calling to me.
"Tell my story," she whispers.
I ignore her prompting as she once ignored me.
"It's time," she insists. "In telling my story you will come to understand."
Stubbornly, I turn away. I am not sure that I want to understand; there is comfort in the anger that I feel toward her.
"If I tell your story it won't be because you ask me to," I tell her. "If I tell your story it will be because I want to move on; it will be because I want to release the burden that you are to me."
Some part of me knows that in telling her story I will find healing, yet I continue to resist, unwilling to risk the release of my resentment toward her, and almost afraid of what might take its place.