I ****** up. I know that. Guilt comes fast, asking what I was thinking. I was doing it for me, but mostly, I was doing it for you. I wanted what I wanted and what I wanted you couldn’t give me. So I let you give me something else, and I tried to be present, tried to accept it graciously, but my head was elsewhere. Guilt rolls down my back, coating it like tar. My head floating around in space somewhere between “do it for her,” and “this is not what I wanted.” Guilt sits down and pours me a cup of tea.