Sadness. The only constant. The only thing I can count on. Where does it come from? Why can’t I kill it?

I have incredible friends, an incredible partner and rewarding work. Is it hereditary?

My mom was the same, and probably my dad. My sister? Yep. My brothers? Probably my two oldest ones. I don’t know the two youngest ones well enough to say positively; however, they seem happier than the rest of us. They had the benefit of being born 5 and 10 years, respectively, after the cluster of the four oldest. My mom was a bit happier by then. Perhaps the end was in site. She could see that she was finally going to leave the farm.

The miserable, lonely, pristine and haunted homestead. My father’s life's work built on my mother’s strength and connections. The screaming success my mother would have no part of because women are the servants of men. Or so she believed. Or so she tried to believe.