Adelaide
A week ago
I closed the door to our suite and took one last look at the outer room. How many times had I dreaded entering this room? There was a surprising comfort in knowing I'd never do it again.
I was well aware that from the outside looking in I'd never appeared strong. God knew I wasn't the woman my daughter was, but nevertheless, I'd fought a gallant fight and I was tired.
From the time I was born, I was reminded of my obligation, my duty. No one will ever know how hard I prayed for my mother to have another child. Not another child. I prayed for a son—a brother, an heir. If only that would have happened, my life would have been so incredibly different. I could have been the daughter my mother wanted—refined and regal—and I wouldn't have had to become my father's poor e
