Today is Monday. I survived the weekend. Only two hours until my family clears out and I can cry, take a nap, hear my music in peace. It's been an ugly three days, no doubt about that. I fell short of my standards, but... I'm going to forgive myself for that. You didn't want to hurt me. You want to help me, and have proven it over and over for a year. But your idea of help isn't what I needed. That's happened several times before. I don't know what to say about this. Perhaps I don't need to say anything further- my weekend emails will clearly express what we must do. Can I forgive you too...

That's a good question. It's hard to see you as good-enough-mother and not feel despair at being left to my own devices, knowing I just wasn't ready, not this time.

Maybe it's a conversation for another time. I'm too pained and tired and aggravated perhaps, for this.