What the Bread Was For

But every fiber of him wanted to cross.

Wanted to call her name, kneel down, tell her who he was, buy her the whole toy store, make up in one grand afternoon for four years of absence.

And he understood now that every one of those impulses was the old disease in a new form — the belief that his feelings entitled him to something, that the strength of his longing gave him a right to insert himself into her life.

It did not.

His longing was his own to carry, and hers was the life to be protected, and the two were not the same, and confusing them was exactly the error that had built the entire catastrophe.

Marlowe had drawn a boundary, and a boundary drawn by a person you have wronged is not a wall to be argued down when your feelings get big enough.