While I was lying in a hospital bed with a broken leg after a car accident, my boyfriend posted pictures of himself at a party with his ex. His caption read, “Finally free from the needy drama queen and her constant demands.” We had been together for four years. I did not comment.

By this morning, my phone would not stop buzzing with desperate messages from him and calls from his mother begging me to reconsider. Okay. I had been dating Richard for four years, and it had been a journey.

Not the inspirational kind with a sunrise at the end, but the kind where the tour guide abandons you halfway up a mountain and you suddenly realize you have been carrying everyone’s backpacks the entire time. We met when I volunteered at a community garden restoration project my company was sponsoring. I was assigned to the compost team, and Richard was the team leader.

He called himself the Compost King, without a trace of irony. Even though that should have been my first warning sign, I found his enthusiasm for rotting vegetables oddly endearing. He gave this whole speech about how breaking down is only the first step toward building something beautiful, and my soft, plant-loving heart practically said, “Sign me up for this metaphor.”

Fast-forward four years, and I now realize the only thing being broken down was my self-respect.

Let me count the ways. Richard helped with rent exactly seven times in four years. My name was the only one on the lease because his credit was “temporarily damaged,” a condition that somehow remained temporary for four whole years.

He was between jobs about sixty percent of the time we were together. When he did have money, it went toward his gaming setup, his clothes, or nights out with the boys. He asked to borrow my car more often than he asked how my day was.

But I was in love, so I made excuses. He was finding himself. He had potential.’

He was just going through a rough patch. All the usual stories we tell ourselves when we are dating someone who has mastered the art of avoiding adulthood. Last week, I got into a pretty bad car accident.

Someone ran a red light and hit the side of my car. I ended up with a broken leg, three fractured ribs, and a concussion. The doctor said I was lucky it was not worse, but honestly, it felt awful enough.

Richard visited me in the hospital once, for twenty minutes. He said hospitals gave him anxiety and that he needed to process the trauma in his own way. The trauma that happened to me, by the way.

Not to make it about myself, but I was the one with metal pins in my leg. My best friend Anastasia stayed with me. She slept in that terrible hospital chair for three nights.

She helped me to the bathroom, brought me real food, and even washed my hair in the tiny sink because I could not shower. That is friendship. So there I was, hazy on pain medication, when Anastasia got a strange look on her face while scrolling through her phone.

I asked what was wrong, and she tried to play it off, but I could tell something was up. I grabbed her phone, which was rude, I know, but pain medication had made me unusually direct. And there it was: Richard at a party with his arm around his ex, Katie.

The caption said, “Finally free from the needy drama queen and her constant demands.”

I just froze. Four years. Four entire years of supporting this man emotionally and financially, putting up with his “finding himself” phases, his gaming habit, his inability to clean a bathroom properly, and this was what he posted while I was literally broken in a hospital bed.

The worst part was seeing comments from our friends saying things like, “Glad you’re happy, bro,” and, “You deserve better.” Where were the people saying, “Hey, is your girlfriend not in the hospital right now?”

I did not comment. I did not text him. I did not call.

I simply processed. And while I processed, I remembered something very important: my name was the only one on the lease. So I made some calls.

I called my landlord. I explained the situation. I called my brother.

I called my cousin. Then I made a plan. Fast-forward to yesterday.

Richard had been back to the apartment a few times while I was staying with Anastasia during my recovery, but he had no idea what was coming. My brother and two of his co-workers helped me execute phase one of my plan. We packed up every single one of Richard’s belongings: every crusty sock, every limited-edition Funko Pop, every gaming console and special-edition controller, his precious craft beer collection, his signed baseball cards, everything.

Then we moved it all out behind the apartment complex. Maybe that sounds harsh, but here is the thing. Richard had not paid rent in three months.

The landlord had been sending notices I had hidden from him because I was embarrassed that my boyfriend could not contribute. I had been picking up extra freelance work to cover his share while he told me he was “networking for opportunities.”

Here is where it gets even better. Do you know what Richard was doing instead of visiting me in the hospital?

He was interviewing for a job. A job my connections helped him get. A job he was supposed to start next week.

Supposed to. Let’s just say the hiring manager is my former college roommate’s brother, and he received some very interesting information about Richard’s financial history and reliability, along with screenshots of those social media posts about being “finally free” from his “needy” girlfriend while she was hospitalized. This morning, my phone started blowing up.

Text after text from Richard. “Where is my stuff?” “Are you serious right now?” “You can’t do this to me.” “Everything I own was in that apartment.” “My collector’s items are worth thousands.” “You’re going to pay for this.”

Then the tone changed. “Baby, please.

I’m sorry. I was just drunk and stupid. Katie doesn’t mean anything to me.

I was just dealing with the stress. Please call me back. I love you so much.

We can work this out. You’re the only one I want.”

The best messages, though, came from his mother. Richard’s mom had always treated me like I should be grateful to be with her precious boy.

She called me crying, saying I needed to reconsider what I had done, that her son had made a mistake but did not deserve to have his life ruined. She said he had told her about “the other thing” I did, meaning the job situation, and that I was being vindictive and cruel. And you know what?

Maybe I was not at my gentlest. But after four years of supporting someone who could not even be bothered to visit me more than once in the hospital, someone who publicly celebrated being free from me while I was learning how to use crutches, I was done. The lease renewal is coming up next month.

I am not renewing. I am moving in with Anastasia until I find a new place, a fresh start with furniture that does not carry memories of Richard gaming on it while I cooked, cleaned, and paid the bills. I do not regret what I did.

Not one bit. No, I am not worried about legal consequences. My cousin said that since Richard’s name is not on the lease and he had not financially contributed, his options are limited.

I also have documentation of everything. Yes, I am healing well. Six more weeks in this cast, but my ribs are already feeling better.

For those asking why I stayed so long, love makes you foolish sometimes. He was not always terrible, and the good moments made me think the bad ones were temporary. Classic, I know.

I will update tomorrow with more of the fallout. His mother has now called me seventeen times and left voicemails ranging from sobbing to warnings. Richard apparently showed up at the apartment, and the landlord would not let him in.

Your girl may have changed the locks. First update. Wow.

I honestly did not expect my last post to get so much attention. Thank you, everyone, for your support, your kind words, and the legal advice. Truly appreciated.

As promised, here is what has happened since my last update. Remember how I mentioned Richard’s mom called me seventeen times? That number is now forty-three.

Forty-three calls in less than thirty-six hours. I finally answered call number forty-four because I figured it would never end otherwise. Let me paint the picture.

I was propped up in Anastasia’s guest bed with my broken leg elevated on three pillows, eating sour cream and onion chips because stress eating is my love language, while Richard’s mother, Deborah, alternated between sobbing, guilt-tripping, and very careful warnings for twenty-eight minutes. Here was the highlight reel. “Richard has been crying for two days straight.

I’ve never seen him like this.” Funny. I cried for two days straight when I woke up in the hospital and he was not there, but go off, I guess. “Do you know how much those collectibles were worth?

His grandfather gave him some of those baseball cards.” Do you know how much rent costs, Deborah? Because I do. Down to the penny.

“He was planning to propose, you know. He showed me the ring.” Unless the ring was made of unpaid bills and broken promises, I highly doubted it. “We could take legal action over his property.” My cousin had already confirmed that was unlikely to go far, but okay.

Then she said, “Richard told me everything about how you’ve been controlling his finances and isolating him from his friends and family.” I laughed so hard I almost hurt my ribs again. Me controlling his finances? The man once spent our grocery money on a limited-edition gaming keyboard.

The man borrowed three thousand dollars from me for a “business opportunity” that turned out to be cryptocurrency. The man had not voluntarily shown me his bank account in three years. And isolating him from friends and family?

I planned his birthday parties. I bought his mother’s Christmas presents. I drove him to family functions when his car was repossessed.

But here is where it got interesting. I did not immediately hang up on Deborah, though I wanted to. Instead, I asked her a simple question.

“Deborah, when was the last time Richard paid rent?”

She went quiet for a moment, then said, “He told me you two had an arrangement where you handled the household bills and he covered other expenses.”

“What other expenses, exactly?” I asked. More silence. Then she said, “Well, I’m not privy to your financial arrangements.”

So I told her.

I broke down exactly what Richard had contributed financially over the past four years. I told her about the seventeen thousand dollars in credit card debt I had taken on covering his half of expenses. I told her about working overtime and weekends while he played video games and “networked.” I told her how I had to sell my grandmother’s jewelry last year to cover rent when Richard assured me he had money coming in that never appeared.

You could practically hear her worldview cracking through the phone. “But he said he’s been supporting you,” she finally said. “He said you lost your job and he’s been carrying you financially.”

I lost my job?

I had worked at the same company for six years, with two promotions. Meanwhile, Richard had had seven jobs in four years, the longest lasting about three months. I did not say all of that right then.

I simply told her I would email her copies of bank statements, rent receipts, and text messages that would clarify the situation. I also mentioned the social media posts he made while I was in the hospital, which she claimed to know nothing about. The call ended with her saying she needed to speak with Richard and would get back to me.

She has not called since. Funny how that works. Now let me back up and explain exactly how the great apartment cleanup went down, because many of you asked for details.

Obviously, I could not physically move all his stuff myself with my broken leg. My brother Dylan is literally my hero. He brought two of his guys over on their day off.

I paid them, of course, because some of us understand the concept of paying people for their work, Richard. We started with his prized possessions: his gaming setup, three monitors, the custom PC he spent twenty-eight hundred dollars on while “between jobs,” his collectible figurines still in boxes because “they’ll be worth more that way,” his signed sports memorabilia that he refused to let me hang because it would not match the decor he never paid for, and his craft beer collection, with some bottles dating back to our first year together that he said he was aging but had really just forgotten. It took four hours to pack everything.

Four hours of finding random socks under the couch, discovering half-eaten bags of chips in the bedside table, and unearthing receipts for purchases I never knew about. It was like an archaeological dig into the life of a grown man determined not to grow up. When Dylan picked up Richard’s “throne,” yes, he called his gaming chair his throne, he carried it ceremoniously like he was removing a cursed artifact.

We did not deliberately break anything. We did not cut up his clothes or smash his electronics. We simply removed them from my apartment.

I did keep one box of potentially important items: his birth certificate, Social Security card, a few family photos, and a folder of medical records. Those are with the landlord, who is one hundred percent on my side after I showed him the social media posts and explained the situation. He even helped me change the locks.

Speaking of the landlord, he told me Richard showed up twice yesterday demanding to be let in. The second time, Richard threatened to call the police, then mysteriously disappeared when the landlord said, “Great idea. Let’s call them together and explain how you haven’t paid rent in months.” Funny how people scatter when the lights come on.

Now about the other thing I did. Remember how I mentioned Richard was starting a new job, a job my network helped him get? It was with a financial services company.

He would have been handling client accounts and financial planning. The problem was that Richard could not even plan his own finances. This is a man who once overdrafted his account buying a video game, then overdrafted it again the next day buying another video game because he forgot about the first overdraft.

So I reached out to my friend’s brother and simply shared some concerning information: screenshots of Richard’s social media posts, his nonexistent rental payment history, and a few choice text messages where he bragged about “working the system” to avoid paying bills. Was it petty? Maybe.

But consider this: would you want someone handling your retirement account who could not remember to pay his electric bill? I did not lie. I did not exaggerate.

I provided factual information about his character and financial responsibility. What they did with that information was their decision. Spoiler: they rescinded the job offer.

That brings us to today’s developments. Richard has graduated from angry texts to sad emails. Long, sad emails about how he has been reflecting, realizes his mistakes, and wants to make things right.

He claims the posts with Katie were just for show, that they are only friends, and that he was acting out because he was scared of losing me after the accident. According to these emails, he is a changed man. He has seen the error of his ways.

He is ready to commit, contribute, and be a real partner. It only took a car accident, four years of financial dependence, public humiliation on social media, losing his belongings, losing a job offer, and being exposed to his mother. What a bargain price for personal growth.

Richard’s college roommate Remy reached out to me. Apparently, Richard has been staying on his couch, crying a lot, and also planning to “win me back.” Remy wanted to warn me that Richard had been talking about some grand gesture to prove his love. I thanked Remy for the heads-up and asked him to let me know if Richard mentioned anything concerning.

Remy agreed and also apologized for not seeing what kind of person Richard really was. Turns out Richard owes Remy money too. I am shocked.

Shocked, I tell you. I am honestly just tired. Physically, from the accident.

Emotionally, from all this drama. But I am also feeling something I have not felt in a long time: relief. It is like I have been carrying a heavy backpack for years and suddenly it is gone.

My shoulders literally feel lighter. Tomorrow I have a follow-up appointment for my leg, and then Anastasia and I are going apartment hunting online. My lease ends in thirty days, and I cannot wait to start fresh.

Thanks for listening to this marathon update. I will post again if anything major happens, especially if Richard attempts his grand gesture. Based on his track record, it will either be wildly inappropriate, surprisingly cheap, or somehow make everything about him.

Possibly all three. Several people asked about my car. It was totaled in the accident.

Insurance is covering it, but I am still waiting on the payout. For now, I am relying on Anastasia and rideshare apps for transportation. For those concerned about Richard coming after me physically, do not worry.

My apartment building has security cameras, Anastasia’s building has a doorman, and Richard is, above all else, someone who talks much bigger than he acts. He makes noise, but he backs down under real confrontation. Second update.

Hello again, my internet family. Your girl is back with another update, and wow, the drama just keeps coming. Grab your popcorn, refill your drink, and settle in, because this story has more twists than my garden hose.

Plant lady jokes. I cannot help myself. First, a medical update, since some of you sweethearts asked.

My follow-up appointment went well. The doctor says my leg is healing nicely, and I might get this monster cast off in four weeks instead of six. My ribs still hurt when I laugh too hard, which has been challenging given recent events.

Now onto what you are all here for. The grand gesture has occurred, and it was exactly as predictable, underwhelming, and self-centered as I expected. Yesterday afternoon, I was at Anastasia’s place, scrolling through apartment listings, when her doorman called up.

Apparently, there was a delivery for me. We were not expecting anything, so Anastasia went down to check, because stairs and a broken leg are sworn enemies. She returned five minutes later with the strangest expression on her face and, wait for it, a compost bin.

A literal plastic container filled with dirt, worms, and what appeared to be kitchen scraps. On top was a handwritten note that said, “Like compost, our love can break down and rebuild into something stronger. I’m decomposing my old self to become the man you deserve.

Please give us another chance to grow together.”

I cannot make this up. The Compost King really thought comparing our relationship to rotting food would win me back. The audacity.

The delusion. The absolute tone-deaf nonsense of it all. Anastasia and I laughed so hard I had to take extra pain medication for my ribs.

She even took a picture of me looking completely bewildered next to this bucket of dirt and posted it to Instagram with the caption, “When your BFF’s ex thinks worms are the way to a woman’s heart.” She tagged me, but thankfully not him. But wait. There is more.

Inside the compost, yes, he put items in the actual decomposing material, was a small velvet box containing a ring. A ring covered in compost. It was not even a nice ring.

It was clearly costume jewelry. The stone looked plastic, and the gold-colored band was already making my skin look slightly green just from holding it. There was also a date engraved inside: 04/22.

For context, that is the date of his previous girlfriend’s birthday. He literally gave me a recycled ring he probably bought for Katie and never gave her. A recycled ring in a compost bin.

The symbolism was almost too perfect. I texted him one sentence: “The compost bin is exactly where our relationship belongs, breaking down among worms and garbage.”

His response was a barrage of texts explaining that the ring was just temporary until he could afford a real one, and that the date was actually when he first realized he loved me. I did not respond further.

Anastasia, my hero, took the compost bin down behind her building and sent him a video of her disposing of it. Now remember how I mentioned I sent those receipts and financial records to Richard’s mom, Deborah? She finally got back to me.

Her first message was a novel-length email that went through the five stages of grief in real time. Denial: “There must be some mistake with these records. Richard told me he was contributing financially.” Anger: “How dare you make my son look like this?

You’ve clearly manipulated these statements.” Bargaining: “If there were financial issues, why didn’t you come to me? I could have helped you both work something out.” Depression: “I’m heartbroken to think my son would behave this way. I raised him better than this.” Acceptance: “I owe you an apology.

I had no idea what was really happening, and I’m deeply sorry for my role in enabling his behavior.”

That last part shocked me to my core. An actual apology from Deborah “My Son Is Perfect” Williams. Mark this day in the history books.

She followed up with a phone call, just one this time, not forty-three, where she revealed some illuminating information. Richard had been telling his entire family that he was supporting me financially for years. He told them I was unstable and could not hold a job.

He claimed the apartment was actually his and that he generously let me stay there. He told them the car that got totaled was his car that he let me borrow. He had been borrowing money from family members for years, claiming it was to help with my spending problem.

The layers of lies. The fiction this man had been writing. He could have used those creative writing skills to make actual money instead of draining his girlfriend and family.

Deborah was clearly embarrassed and upset. She revealed that she had given Richard over fifteen thousand five hundred dollars in the past two years for “emergencies” she now realizes were fabricated. She apologized repeatedly for her earlier messages and said she needed time to process everything.

I actually felt bad for her. She had been manipulated by her son just as much as I had been, possibly more. I told her I did not blame her and that Richard could be very convincing when he wanted to be.

The conversation ended with her saying something that gave me chills: “I love my son, but he needs to face consequences for once in his life. I won’t be bailing him out this time.”

Progress, people. Actual progress.

Now for the big revelation many of you have been asking about. What was the other thing I did besides the job situation and the apartment cleanup? Remember those credit cards I mentioned, the ones where I took on seventeen thousand dollars in debt covering Richard’s expenses?

Turns out three of them were joint accounts he opened with my information to “build his credit,” then never made payments on. I have been working with my bank and a financial adviser to separate these accounts and document which charges were his. It is a lengthy process, but I have managed to prove that approximately eleven thousand dollars of that debt is directly attributable to purchases he made.

I did not just send this information to his potential employer. I also sent it to his parents, his brother, and our mutual friends with a simple note: “If Richard asks to borrow money or move in with you, this is what you can expect.” Is that petty? Maybe.

But it is also true, and truth is a powerful disinfectant for the kind of unhealthy relationships Richard creates. Even Katie, the ex from the social media post, messaged me on Instagram. “I had no idea you were in the hospital.

Richard told me you two broke up months ago. I’m so sorry.”

Months ago. We were literally living together until my accident.

The fiction this man creates. I responded politely to Katie, assuring her I did not blame her. She revealed that Richard had been messaging her for weeks before the party, claiming we were on a break and that he was ready to move on.

She felt terrible and offered to send me screenshots of their conversations. I declined the screenshots because there was no need to hurt myself further, but I thanked her for her honesty. Richard showed up at Anastasia’s building again yesterday evening.

The doorman refused to let him up. That man is getting a gift basket. Richard caused a scene in the lobby, yelling that he just wanted to talk and explain everything.

The doorman called the police, but Richard left before they arrived. He then proceeded to call me thirty-seven times in the span of two hours. I did not answer, but he left increasingly desperate voicemails.

“Please just talk to me.” “I can explain everything.” “This is all a misunderstanding.” “I was going to pay you back.” “You’re ruining my life.” “I have nowhere to go.” “My mom won’t even let me stay with her.” “I’m sleeping in my car.”

What car? His was repossessed months ago. One message concerned me because he said he might make a reckless choice if I did not call him back.

So I requested a wellness check. I had Remy’s address. The officers reported back that Richard was physically okay, just emotional, and they recommended that he seek mental health support.

Later, Remy texted me: “FYI, Richard is no longer staying here. Found out he took two hundred dollars from my wallet. Changed the locks.”

Wow.

Just wow. Even in crisis, this man could not stop taking what was not his. So where does this leave us?

Richard is apparently couch surfing with increasingly distant acquaintances. His family is not bailing him out. His friends are dropping away.

His job prospects are limited. His belongings are gone. His reputation is in pieces.

And me? I am healing, both my leg and my heart. I found a promising apartment across town that is actually less expensive than my current place.

Anastasia has been an absolute rock. My family has rallied around me. My job has been incredibly understanding about my recovery.

I am still angry. I am still hurt. But mostly, I am relieved.

It feels like I have been underwater for four years and finally came up for air. The next update will probably be my last, because I am focusing on moving forward rather than looking back. But I wanted to thank all of you for your support, advice, and hilarious comments.

This community has been unexpectedly therapeutic during one of the hardest periods of my life. Final update. Hello for the last time, my internet support system.

It has been exactly one month since my first post, and what a month it has been. I promised a final update, so here it is: the conclusion to the saga of Richard the Compost King, and how your girl finally bloomed after being buried under his mess for four years. First, the practical updates.

I moved. I am officially in my new apartment as of yesterday. It is smaller than my old place, but it has a tiny balcony where I have already started a container garden.

The building has an elevator, crucial for the broken-leg situation, and security cameras, crucial for the ex-boyfriend situation. My cast is off two weeks earlier than expected. I am still using a walking boot, and physical therapy is no joke.

I sweat more in PT than I ever did at the gym, but I can move around independently now, which feels amazing. My car insurance finally paid out. I bought a used but reliable Ford that I have named Freedom.

Cheesy, I know, but I am leaning into it. Now for what you are really here for: the Richard saga conclusion. After my last update, things escalated before they finally resolved.

Richard’s desperation reached new heights when he realized his usual tactics, crying, begging, and guilt-tripping, were not working. So he tried a new approach: public shaming. He created a fundraiser titled “Homeless After Girlfriend’s Revenge,” where he spun a completely fictional story about how I took his money and threw away family heirlooms after a minor argument.

He included pictures of himself looking sad on what was clearly Remy’s couch before Remy kicked him out, and claimed he needed five thousand dollars to get back on his feet. The fundraiser lasted exactly six hours before it was taken down. Why?

Because Anastasia, my brother Dylan, and at least a dozen mutual friends reported it as misleading. Several people also commented with links to my Reddit posts, which I had never shared with Richard. Seeing his public story challenged apparently triggered something in Richard.

He showed up at my old apartment building, thankfully while I was already staying at Anastasia’s, and caused enough of a scene that the police were called. According to my former neighbors, he was yelling about defamation and lies and demanding to be let in to get his things. When the police arrived, Richard attempted to convince them that he lived there and that I had illegally locked him out.

This backfired spectacularly when the landlord confirmed Richard was not on the lease. Richard could not produce any mail or ID with that address. Multiple neighbors testified that they knew I lived there alone.

Then the police ran his ID and discovered he had an outstanding warrant for unpaid traffic tickets. Yes, my friends. Richard was arrested, not for the scene he was causing, but for the twelve hundred dollars in unpaid tickets he had accumulated over the past two years.

Tickets I had no idea existed because he had been hiding the mail. He spent two nights in custody before his brother, not his mother, interestingly, bailed him out. According to mutual friends, this experience was apparently the wake-up call Richard needed.

He has since moved in with his brother, who is making him pay rent. He started working at his brother’s company. He stopped contacting me entirely.

That last one is the most significant development. After weeks of constant calls, texts, emails, and dramatic gestures, the silence was sudden and absolute. No more three a.m.

voicemails. No more essay-length emails about how he had changed. No more compost-based metaphors about our relationship.

At first, I was suspicious. Was this some new tactic? Was he planning something bigger?

But according to his brother, who surprisingly reached out to check on me, Richard is genuinely trying to get his life together, and part of that process is leaving the past behind. Translation: his therapist probably told him to stop harassing me. That brings me to the most important update: my mental and emotional state.

I have been seeing a therapist of my own, thanks to workplace insurance, and we have been unpacking some hard truths. I stayed with Richard not just because I loved him, but because fixing his problems gave me purpose and identity. I overlooked red flags because I was afraid of being alone.

I enabled his behavior by constantly bailing him out. I valued myself so little that I thought his scraps of affection were all I deserved. These realizations have not been easy to face.

There were sessions where I cried until my ribs hurt all over again. But acknowledging those patterns is the first step to breaking them. As for Richard’s mother, Deborah, we had one final conversation that brought unexpected closure.

She invited me to lunch at a restaurant with ramp access for my leg, a thoughtfulness Richard never showed, and we had a surprisingly honest discussion. She apologized again for not seeing what was happening and for raising a son who thought it was acceptable to treat partners this way. She revealed that Richard’s father had similar patterns before their divorce, and she worried she had normalized financial irresponsibility and emotional manipulation.

I found myself comforting her, which was a strange role reversal, but it was also healing to see that she genuinely cared and was taking steps to stop enabling Richard. At the end of lunch, she handed me an envelope containing two thousand dollars in cash. “This doesn’t begin to cover what he owes you,” she said, “but it’s what I can do right now.”

I initially refused, but she insisted.

“This isn’t from Richard. This is from me, because I failed as a mother if I raised someone who would treat you this way.”

I accepted the money and used it to furnish my new apartment, a fresh start without any remnants of Richard’s presence. Thank you, Reddit, for witnessing this chapter of my life.

Your support, advice, and occasional tough love helped me stay strong when I wanted to cave. You reminded me that I deserved better when I forgot.