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It's 2:46 in the afternoon here. The house is quiet except for the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard and the gentle swooshing noises of the central air-conditioning making the humidity tolerable.

Mark's asleep next to me after a night which he spent mostly sitting upright, awake in a hospital chair in a cold corridor while I, deeply dosed with acetaminophen, slept endlessly on a gurney parked across the hall. He's being kind. Very much so. There's lots of cuddles, love, patience. Tomorrow the reality of this will hit him and he'll be furious.

Kate isn't speaking to me. She's not even looking in my direction. Hard to blame her, really. Twelve years old and your mother tries to kill herself in the middle of the night? While you're still awake and in the next room? Whether she ever forgives me isn't the issue. Whether she ever feels safe again is far more important. Holy crap, that's done damage. Luckily, when John took her to the mall to buy her the final book in the Inkheart trilogy - buying her a new book as she had just finished book two last night seemed like a good idea - they ran into Kate's best friend, out shopping with her mother and sister, and Kate went home with them. I'm glad. It brings her a break from a house that must seem very scary right now, and means that she can either have a good time with her friend or have someone to talk to, or both.

I can't write anymore right now. Thinking about what this is going to do to my relationship with my daughter and my son fills me with so much fear that I can't even begin to describe it.

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edithjones

September 2010

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