God, I hate my family, these people I never chose to love, but love all the same. What he asks is what Ada refuses most to give, he asks her to believe in his grief, the ordinary grief of a man with a wife he doesn’t love overmuch and four children who he does not, for a moment, understand the usual grief of men when they find thatthey have done nothing, and there is nothing left for them to do. And even then, it seems we always feel pain for the wrong thing. I realised, too, that I was not in love with him, but condemned instead to a lifetime of such false intesities, that I would have to love each man I slept with in order not to hate myselfĬhildren do not understand pain they experiment with it, but you could almost say that they don’t feel it, until they are grown. Your eldest daughter can remember the inhaler, and your youngest will take her gym kit with her, and it is just as you suspected – most of the stuff that you do is stupid, really stupid, most of the stuff you do is just nagging an whining and picking up for people who are too lazy even to love you, even that, let alone find their own shoes under their own bed people who turn and accuse you – scream at you sometimes – when they can only find one shoe.īut though it hurt, I found that I was able to draw on more ancient hurts than that – and this is how I survived. And the girls will be picked up from school, and dropped off again in the morning. And his important meeting was not important, not in the slightest. Your husband canfeed the kids, he can work the new oven, he can find the sausages in the frisge after all. There is something wonderful about death, how everything shuts down, and all the ways you thought you were vital are not even vaguely important. I will do al this in deference to grief that is biological, idiot, timeless. It is a confusing feeling – somewhere between diarrhoea and sex – this grief that is almost genital. There is a terrible heat, a looseness in my innards that makes me want to dig my fists between my tights. I stay downstairs while the family breather above me and I write it down, I lay them out in nice sentences, all my clean white bones. She must have loved him! I wait for the kind of sense that dawn makes, when you have not slept. All I have is stories, night thoughts, the sudden conviction that uncertainty spawns. I do not know the truth, or I do not know how to tell the truth.
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