The relatives continue to bash me, sending regular give-me-your-inheritance communiqués. But my reactions are changing: Pain and Sorrow are taking a back seat to Anger and Humor.
Anger says, Block the mo-fos! So I converse with Hope, point out that it’s been ceaseless for six months, mention previous egregious behavior, and she finally concedes.
Humor suggests I embrace my inner Cruella deVil, and asks, What would Maleficent do? They remind me that it’s useless to expect dialog with twisted thinkers, though Clíodhna knows I’ve tried.
One morning, after blocking their numbers and addresses, I wake up super happy: I never have to listen to them again! My time is my own! I feel light, a thousand pounds of agony sloughing away.
Once I attended a children’s play. The witch was so-so, and I thought, I could do so much better. I hadn’t performed in years, but the spark wasn’t dead.
I am bitch and beloved. I am the wolf at the door. I can protect myself.
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