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I wake to the touch of my daughter’s hand as she squeezes my cheek

She wakes with the twist of her stomach gnawing away her insides


I consider my day ahead and ready my children for their day at school.

She captures a glimpse of her son, and worries for his future.


I sigh at the daily grind ahead of me

She wonders if today will be her last


I ask you “Lord give me strength to face my day”

She asks you “Lord give me strength to face my day”


I carry out my chosen career that gives me fulfilment and identity along with its frustrations and conflict.

She steels herself against the identity that was thrust upon her as a child, and wonders how she will survive.


I am annoyed that my lunch break is delayed as I finally sit down to eat my lunch.

She waits for customer number 5. Wondering if she will eat today.


I welcome my kids home from school, I lament the overuse of technology and set some boundaries “30 minutes and then your time is up”

She sets her son down, under her bed, as the men come 1, 2, 3,… 10,… 15. She prays that her son can block it out, “stay there, don’t move”.


I say “I want my kids to live a rich and full life”.

She says “I want my kids to live a rich and full life”.


I make dinner, resentful that this task is so often left to me.

She makes a meal for her son, she made enough money today for one meal, they can share.

I lie in bed, exhausted.

She lies in the stench of her violations, broken.

I am rich.

She is poor.

I say “is this my life?”

She says “is this my life?”