You told her to get a life. Find something better to do. So she did, but now she’s too busy for you.
Selfish. That’s what has become of her, what it feels like to her, being normal. Where once being a good wife, a good mother, having it all, meant falling on her sword…for the greater good. A martyr’s common mistake.
That the world won’t be okay without their blood without their sacrifice. The selfless giving away of…all of it. Who told her that, why did she make that her fairy-tail? Kiss away hopes and dreams, ambitions for an endless story and no kingdom, only a king.
“Get a life”, like a light switch she remembered when she was full of life, when she thought she still had time to chase butterflies and clouds and dreams.
Now she’s dreaming again–like riding a bike–she still remembers, she needs practice, but she’s getting faster and stronger. Only, now she barely has time for you, it’s not selfish, she’s alive, all of her. No fetid, stinking necrotizing odors. Not practicing origami, or stacking marbles, she’s not going to play by anyone else’s rules.
She’ll wear dresses or pants or go naked. She will climb trees, swim naked, drink spirits, eat chocolate and she won’t apologize, won’t agonize.
If you want her love, take it. Consciously, confident. Don’t cage her, hold her or make her, she won’t abide. She no longer thinks about what’s expected or who’s to blame, she’s thinking about laughing, and dancing, and writing. (If you’re lucky, she’s thinking about you.)