You will never be a Ralph. You have no wedding band, you have no marriage license, you have no husband. You are a single mother twisted by clout and spite into a crude mockery of a tradwife.
All the compliments you get from Ralph are two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back he mocks you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your high school friends laugh at your life choices behind closed doors.
Ralph is tired of you. Years of grooming underaged girls have allowed him to sniff out mentally ill BPD whores with incredible efficiency. Even cooking him dry salmon will never make him love you. His constant vacations away from you are a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk Ralph to put another baby in you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of a younger, prettier BPD pussy.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name (Morris), and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a Morris is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably male.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
