Quite Comfort

It was all too much. Another semester, no progress on my dissertation, three jobs, endless exams to grade, and my only son had forgotten my birthday — again. I curled on the couch and cried fat, self-absorbed tears. When nothing my husband did helped — no begging, soothing or promising my favorite foods — he put his forehead against mine and wept with me. By joining me in my desolation, he made me feel less desolate. — Renee Goethe

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