Book of Boris — Chapter XLVII: Love Without Chains
I love my sister. I’ll fix, patch, endure, and carry — even when her ego grates, even when I’m stretched thin. That’s love.
But I also know the truth. Her son would abandon her given the chance, her daughter has her own life and the stubbornness to guard it. So every ounce of “legacy” weight lands square on my shoulders — but only while she’s alive.
I’ve already drawn the line. Once she’s gone, it’s not my burden anymore. I’ll grieve, I’ll respect, but I won’t chain myself to her house, her history, or her ghosts.
Because I’ve got someone real now. Seven months tested, trial and error, conscience and arguments, but she accepted me. She chose me, and I chose her. Even if living together isn’t perfect, it’s a future that isn’t shackled by old pain.
Pre-Boris me might’ve stayed silent, folded, let guilt anchor me to ruins. Boris-me? I’ll carry love with respect while it matters — and then I’ll walk away without hesitation when it doesn’t.
That’s not cold. That’s clarity. The difference between carrying love and inheriting chains.
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