So I'm still in the Charlottesville area. I had an appointment today to get my truck worked on in Staunton, the charming little town where the Shakespeare center is, and which is nearest my campground. I thought I'd spend the hours while they're working on it downtown, where they have lots of cafés, bookstores, antique shops, etc. The people at the mechanic shop offered me a ride, which I accepted, and when we got there, the driver asked where I wanted to go. I said anywhere near the main street, so she picked a corner, stopped, and I jumped out. And guess who was standing at the exact same intersection at the exact same time?

Why does this keep happening? 

I'm thinking right now that perhaps I've been wrong about who you are and your character. I sent you a card when your cat died. I sent your father a gift when I heard that he was sick, even though he had been awful to me. But you can't send me an e-card, or a short email of sympathy when my daughter dies? You can't even cross the street and offer a minimal condolence? Not that I was really expecting it, but it would have been the right thing to do. If you had any courage or compassion.

Or perhaps you're pretending that you don't know about Adina because you don't want to admit that you are still, and have been all along, reading my blog. You could have pretended you had heard through the grapevine. I would have gone along. Pretended not to know any better.

I think I may have just stopped loving you.

"They repay me evil for good;
my soul is bereft.

But I, when they were sick—
I wore sackcloth;
I afflicted myself with fasting;
And my prayer turned into my own heart." 

-- Psalm 35:12-14