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americans generalizing every country’s accent as if it only has one is actually funnier… not her fault y’all wanted a stereotypical one instead of the actual accent of the woman she was playing, which she nailed lol.

1,676,818 görüntüleme • 8 ay önce •via X (Twitter)

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"My mother raised four kids and buried a husband and built a life entirely with her own hands. Last week she turned 80 and moved into assisted living. She was allowed to bring one thing that wasn't furniture. Every single one of us assumed she would bring Dad's photo or her china or the quilt she's had since 1987. She looked at all of us and she said — 'I'm bringing Bruno.' Not one of us said a single word. Because not one of us could argue with that. Because Bruno has slept beside her bed every night for seven years. Because when Dad passed Bruno didn't leave her side for two weeks. Because she is 80 years old and she has earned every single choice she makes and this one was never a question." We helped her move in on Thursday. She directed everything. Where the lamp goes. Which books on which shelf. Dad's photo facing the bed so she sees it first thing. Bruno's bed went in first. Before anything else. She told my brother — "Get his bed in there first. Everything else can wait." When we left that afternoon Bruno was already on his bed with his chin on her quilt like he'd lived there his whole life. My sister called me on the drive home. She couldn't finish a sentence. Neither could I. We are not sad about this. We want to be clear about that. Mom is okay. Mom is more than okay. Mom walked into that room like she walks into every room — like she owns it and is prepared to improve it. We are crying because of the chin on the quilt. We are crying because she is 80 years old and she has been through everything and when they told her one thing she didn't hesitate. Not the china. Not the photo. Not the quilt. Bruno. Drop a ❤️ for Mom. And one for Bruno who has been her one thing for seven years without knowing it.

Crazy Moments

621,009 görüntüleme • 2 ay önce

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘 𝖂𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝕹𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝕿𝖔 𝕰𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖊 The light over the sink was the color of a held breath. She stood there long enough for the tap to stop dripping and the house to go quiet around her, as if even the walls had decided to watch. Steam ghosted the glass, then thinned, and two angels looked at each other through what was left. One of them was wounded. Her wings, if they had ever been wings, hung wrong. Not broken in the pretty way stories like to paint. Broken in the living way. A shoulder drawn in. A mouth that remembered how to smile and no longer trusted the reflex. There was a mark violence leaves that no one else can point to and still she felt it, a wound under the skin. She had survived the night and then survived every morning after it, which is a second violence nobody counts. Across the glass the other angel was whole. Same face. Same bones. A version of her that still believed a room was only a room. Her hair fell the way it used to, easy, unguarded. Her eyes had not yet learned to measure a doorway or a tone of voice that changes too fast. She looked back with a brightness so intact it felt like a door slammed on a hymn. The wounded one wanted to hate her for it. She wanted to fall into her. She wanted to warn her. She could do none of those things. The glass would not allow passage. Time would not either. They stared until the air between them felt heavy. This was not one woman and her reflection. This was a threshold. Before and after occupying the same small bathroom, breathing the same cheap soap, refusing to blink first. She lifted her hand. The whole one lifted the same hand, a heartbeat late, as if memory had to catch up with the echo. Fingertips found the cold. Two lives met and failed to touch. The glass held them apart with a cruelty so ordinary it almost passed for furniture. Speak, the wounded one thought, though she did not know which of them she meant. The whole angel had no language for what was coming. That was her holiness and her helplessness. She could only remain as proof. Proof that there had been a self before the theft. Proof that the woman on this side of the glass was not a different creature, only a life interrupted and forced to continue. Something in the wounded angel’s chest tore and then... impossibly... kept beating. She didn't smash the mirror. People who have already been shattered learn the cost of breaking more glass. She looked until the two faces burned into one another: the girl who walked into the world unarmored, and the woman who walked out of the dark carrying her name like a lit match in a wind. When she finally turned from the sink, the whole angel did not vanish. She came too, folded into the wounded one the way a former country lives inside an exile. Not as a ghost. As a claim. Nearly 1 in 3 women on earth will stand at some version of this glass. The World Health Organization names it without poetry: physical violence, sexual violence, or both, at least once in a lifetime. Hundreds of millions. In the United States the numbers do not grow kinder. About 1 in 4 women report completed or attempted rape. Older national counts still used by survivor networks say 1 in 6. Most never see a courtroom. Most already know the face. The world prefers the whole angel in the glass. The world is less eager to look at the one who had to keep living in silence. I am one of these angels and so are many others. 💫This post is dedicated to all the other angels who remember like it was yesterday.

Lj Priest (Trader Jill)

18,195 görüntüleme • 6 gün önce