While The Kid was describing his new apartment and new neighbors, I took a cheap shot at the past, our past, something I still do occasionally. Much to my frustration, my emotional reservoir contains enough hurt to still fuel unwarranted attacks. He responded,

“I unpacked pictures of you today, not her or anybody else; you’re the one I still talk to. She’s tried to talk to me lately but I don’t because I’d rather have you in my life, albeit slightly, than her, and I know I can’t have both. You’re the one I take with me.”

If I didn’t still have pain and anger, even after all this time, I would probably find it kind of sweet … in a really fucked up way, of course.