oh. number one hundred and twenty-eight.

I regret that in the last 18 years of my life, i've never told you what you really make me feel inside. I'm sorry that you were sick, and that part of you still is, but it's not right to make me deal with it, or to let your illness grow onto me. I'm supposed to be your daughter, not the other way around... i regret that i've let you walk all over me...

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