My skin is not so thick after all. I carry this small seed of empathy that grows where it should not. Cuckoos egg. I can't help imagining her loss as my own. The poignant tearing away of something I thought I could own. The child in the lolly aisles weeping, empty-handed, my fingers still curled around nothing. I feel all the pain of rejection, the insecurities rise up, I am too large, too out-spoken, too unfeminine. Then I remind myself that this is her loss I am feeling and she is none of these things.
I feel the mean snap of his chatter and am reminded that I am privileged and may not complain. But there is still pain. Nothing gets easier with these blessings I have collected up. There are still the dark nights and I am still no less lonely. Only now I have no story and must remain silent. Or that is what he tells me.
I see her hurt and I am moved. I do not want to be moved but I am. I am sorry for your loss because I am no longer supposed to be sorry for my own.