The anger simmered, a slow burn in your veins.

You should be over it. It was long ago.

You should be indifferent.

You can’t seem to let go.

Of it.

Of her.

Of them.

It’s not healthy this attitude you carry. You know that. You have tried to move on. You’re seated next to the person in your future.

Yet all your thoughts are on the person in your past.

You had made mistakes in your life. Things that if you could you would take back. Things that make you cringe and feel ashamed.

You couldn’t forgive.

She didn’t fight for you.

Your daughter begins to stir and cry.

You murmur something to him and rise wandering away in search of a restroom.

You glance down at your daughters red face, the tears streaming from her eyes.

You pause so suddenly that you almost trip over your feet.

In the sea of moving people you stand alone, a still statue amongst the living and the breathing.

You love her.

You love her.

YOU LOVE HER.

Like the first time you saw her, it hits you, grabs a hold of you, and you’re powerless to stop it.

The how’s, the whys, and the when’s scream and scramble through your brain.

You had forgotten.

Awash in anger and bitterness.

You had forgotten that you loved her.

That you wanted her.

That you had always on some level loved and wanted her, through out everything it was there.

Lurking.

Waiting for the right time to make itself known.

You love her.

But love wasn’t enough.

That was one thing you knew.

She didn’t fight for you, you think still bitter.

Ever bitter.

You didn’t fight for her, a small voice utters inside her mind.

You didn’t fight for each other, it adds.

She doesn’t love me, you think then.

She hates me.

Like you hate her? The voice asked.

You inhale sharply.

Things begin to blur around you.

You realize you’re moving.

Your daughter’s still crying.

He’s calling your name carrying an army of luggage with him.

You can only see her face.

You can only hear her voice.

You can only ever love her.

The location shifts.

The steering wheel is cool and solid beneath your hands.

Your daughter’s content and asleep in the back seat.

You don’t know what you’re doing.

Does it matter? The same annoying voice asks with too much amusement for your liking.

You’re tempted, so tempted to pull the car over and turn around.

You never forgave her.

You’re still angry.

But you love her.

You steel yourself as you unstrap the baby from her car seat.

Your knock is brisk and sharp.

You love her.

The door opens with a jerk and she stands irate before you.

You swallow taking her in. Seeing her for what seems like the first time in ages.

You love her.

She’s talking now, asking what’s going on, and why you’re here.

Sometimes love doesn’t conquer all.

Sometimes it isn’t enough.

Sometimes you have to work at it, keep pushing and pushing until it’s a habit. Any love worth having is some thing worth fighting for. Before this you said you had fought and lost.

You realize staring into her eyes that you’d lost the war the minute you’d met her. You were hers and there was no changing that.

Some things couldn’t be stopped.

You wanted to fight.

You wanted to try.

You wanted to love.

You wanted to forgive.

So you say the only thing you can.

“Bette…”

And it’s like you’re finally home.

Ready to move onward.

With her.

As a family.

Ever onward.