June 8, 1944
I think I love Ronaldo.
Another terrible thing for me to write as a married woman. Yet I still do not feel any regret for my words.
Before Ronaldo arrived, I was in an unimaginable amount of pain after what John did to me last night. Truthfully, I was still trying to wrap my head around it. To somehow justify his actions in my head to make it hurt less. I’m his wife, and he didn’t do anything I haven’t allowed him to do before. Yet those reminders didn’t make me feel any less empty. Nor did it rid me of the utter negativity polluting my mind and soul. It made me want to crawl outside my skin. And for the first time in my life, I truly did not want to be alive, if only to stop feeling that way.
If I had slipped off into nothingness, I would have welcomed it.
Until Ronaldo walked in.
While these feelings did not magically disappear, I did find a little morsel of light in the darkness plaguing my mind.
When he cradled me to his chest and told me about the beautiful love story between his parents, it settled my aching heart a little. And then, when he looked down upon me, even more beautiful words spilling from his lips, it started to sing.
I couldn’t help but ask him to sing, too. I wanted to know if his voice would harmonize with the melody in my heart.
It did.