My Indian Girlfriend Harpreet

”“So,” she said, leaning back, “how do you plan to deal with all of this?”“I talked to Joyce on Sunday and she told me that she wasn’t going to put up with, and I quote, ‘my bullshit’ and she said she didn’t know why you did.”Jennifer laughed, “For Joyce, your ‘bullshit’, as she calls it, is simply who you are. I know you. So does Stephanie. Joyce has this idealistic image of you being who she wants you to be at some point in the future. But didn’t she admit she was afraid you couldn’t be who she wanted you to be?”“Yes, that’s true,” I admitted.“Well, you can’t be who she wants you to be. Didn’t you spend an entire year in Sweden trying to figure out who you were? Did you do all the soul-searching just to try to be someone you aren’t to please a girl who can’t accept you for who you are, problems and all?”“But what she wants lines up with who I want to be.”“Do you mean that it lines up with who you think you want to be, or maybe with what the world has told you that you should be? The. He had an enormous family, and the pews of the funeral home’s small chapel were filled to capacity. My brother-in-law, the severe looking man with the beady eyes who was taking over the family business, delivered a glowing eulogy of my father, all of his contributions, his generous love of his family and friends, his dedication to honesty and principle. Finally, it was time for the family to say their last goodbyes. As I stood by the casket, I looked at my father’s face, finally peaceful, lacking all of the anger I was accustomed to seeing there. I touched his hand, and brushing away unexpected tears, I tucked into his coffin a letter I had written him years before, just before I ran away from home. Around it I had wrapped another letter written only the night before, my letter of letting go. ‘I’m forgiving you, Dad. I have to go on with my life now.’ There was nothing else to say. It was harder than I had ever imagined it would be to let go of that letter, to face the fear that.
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