About the last entry

Bad poem, I know. It was a line that kept going through my head, wouldn't leave me alone until I did something with it. This was the place to put it since I can't share such information outright publicly. I finally told my oldest how I feel. I thought she would react with anger, but she didn't. Her hubby had it figured it, talked to her about it before I ever said anything. I figured he would because he watched his parents go through. . . . I'm not prepared to tell my other three as of yet, nor Garry, not until I can find a job that can actually support me. I have sneaky suspicion Garry will make me leave the house, and ask "Who He is?" There is no other, unless He is work, manuscripts, grandchildren, the child still at home, and caring for Garry. I don't want to be in this house right now. I imagine the day I only come by to check on Garry, make sure things are being done, and to visit, nothing more. Talking about this will make it easier, I hope, to tell the others, especially Garry.