I sat in that field for what felt like hours. Maybe it was. Time felt meaningless when you were drowning in emotions you'd spent two weeks avoiding.
The anger eventually burned itself out, leaving ash and exhaustion. The guilt remained, heavy and persistent, but slightly less overwhelming. The sorrow ebbed and flowed like waves, intense then manageable then intense again.
But underneath it all, that simple thought kept returning.
I miss my mom.
She'd been gone for years. Dying from working too hard. Before I'd even gotten my first job. Before any of this started.
What would she think of me now? Her son, accused by the world of being complicit in his father's crimes. Hiding on a farm in Poland while the man who killed his best friend ruled the planet.
Would she be disappointed? Proud that I was still fighting? Sad that I'd ended up so alone?
I didn't know. Would never know.
But I knew what she'd tell me if she were here. The same thing she'd always said when I was struggling.
