It had been five years. She sat in the chair, legs tucked up beneath her shivering body, unable to shake the chill that overwhelmed the room that morning. Her mug of tea cradled between her hands, she related the story of loss and betrayal.
Of course, she did not use those words. Hers were words laden with content, a timeline of sorts of what occurred. Intermittently, she shared the emotion and devastation that consumed her then and still lingers today, five years later.
Is there a more brutal wound than a relational one?
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