It was a rough day. Unpacking has been harder than
I thought. Every time I open a box, I'm met with more memories like sharp
knives that stab my already wounded heart. Today I shed tears over an outfit I
wore when I went to my husband's mission homecoming, donated lingerie from my
wedding night, bagged baby clothes that I no longer need to keep as
hand-me-downs, pitched shoes I've climbed mountains with my boys in, and neatly
folded some fleece pants that I snuggled in with my little family on Christmas
morning. My little family. My little now-broken family.
And every time I walk into the garage and stare at the stack of boxes
that still need to come into the house, one by one ... I cringe at the thought
of what might be inside them. How many more knives can there be? How many more
stabs can my heart take?
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