Do you see these hands? These are the hands that built the box. These are the hands that wielded the saw and the plane, the hammer and the chisel. These are the hands that built the box; not out of spite or hatred, not out of vanity or pride, but out of love. These are the hands that labored ceaselessly, that bled and ached. These are my hands.
Look at these hands. Look at the scars and the callouses. Understand that I do not begrudge you the wounds; they are badges of honor, testaments of devotion, symbols of love. The scars you see are merely the memories of past pain. The torment I feel now cannot be seen; the wounds you inflict cut me deeper than any splinter could pierce.
I do not begrudge you the sacrifices I have made, nor the wounds that I have suffered. I ask little in return for these sacrifices, for my devotion, for my love. I ask only that you respect me, that you try to understand what I have done for you.
I ask only that you stay in the box.