I had decided that it was time to return home, but it was not so much with reluctance as with severe misgivings. Certainly, I missed my loved ones – we had not seen each other for the greater part of a dozen years – and they, I’m willing to venture, felt a longing to rekindle familial fires. Having departed abruptly (with no notice whatsoever) because of personal torment over an explosive encounter with Guy, I felt enormous guilt for hurting my perplexed family and friends. I was so ashamed that I could barely breathe, racked as I was with anger over my own vulnerability – no, stupidity is the more precise word.
Shouldn’t a person burned not once, but twice before, be wary of the danger signals? These warnings never fail to display themselves, and in my case, in so large and evident a manner. Was I so sidetracked by perceived loyalty due a friend that I couldn't sense what my family readily discerned and warned me against? Where exactly were my emotions taking me? I don’t really know if I could have averted calamity by simply taking the less risky avenue of approach with what began as a friend’s innocuous request for help.
Who isn’t willing to go out on a limb for a friend?