Baconian

For twenty years, I did everything for that man. I ironed his shirts, I cooked his dinners, I relieved his stresses at the end of each day. Sometimes I even did his work for him, if we thought I could get away with it. I read his assignments, wrote his papers, made his corrections. Then, when the publication came out, his name was in print. I told myself it didn't matter, because he appreciated me, and that was credit enough.

For twenty years, I deluded myself into thinking I was loved.