She grew up.
Strong, beautiful and true.
A hothouse flower within marble walls and high windowed rooms.
She grew up in Brazil.
Where the streets are hot.
And sometimes wet.
She fell in love with a boy.
He broke her heart.
She met a man.
And he seemed to suit a plan.
Safe, secure and soulless.
They got married anyway.
20 years, 3 kids and a multi million pound business later, they're divorcing.
It's only right since she played away.
She says she thought she loved him, the husband that is.
And she rightly did.
Towards the end she heard her skin shrieking when she lay next to him.
She's beaten him.
His ego lies in tatters next to ripped photos lining the office bin.
The office he's now reduced to living in.
His wrath has been measured out in legal letters, court rooms, and the outrageous lies he told to their off spring.
She is reed thin.
The original scottish widow.
You know, the dark caped, lady from the pension adverts?
40ish, dark eyed, a face made for living.
She wore black today.
The tight stitching on her cowboy boots as tight as the tired looking tightened eyes.
She leaves.
Weaving down the path to pick up her daughter.
Less strong. More beautiful.
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