we don’t tell you where we’re going, you tell us off,” reasoned Robbie. I nodded. “So are you going to tell Daddy off?”
“Yes,” I lied because I wouldn’t have told him off, instead I’d have wrapped myself around him and held on for dear life.
“Has he gone to see Billy?” asked Robbie, his face beginning to crumple. I swallowed hard.
“No, he hasn’t.”I knew he hadn’t. I prayed he hadn’t.
“But how do you know?” scowled James.
I looked into the distance where the stream melted into the fields and said nothing. The fishing continued in silence and they caught nothing while their little brains digested what I’d had to say, as best they could. None of us wanted to imagine a life without him.
8.10pm
I sat on a patio chair, wrapped myself in your navy blue chunky Aran sweater and waited for the day to merge into dusk. The cordless phone I’d asked Caroline to buy for me was never more than a foot away. But it was as silent as the world around me. Only the moths clamouring around a candle’s flame in the Moroccan lantern kept me company. Directionless and unsteady, we had a lot in common.
I poured the last trickle from a bottle of red wine into my glass and waited. That’s all I’d done for three days - wait.
When I was inside our house I was homesick for a place I’d never left. But it had become claustrophobic without Simon and I dreaded the nights. Because without the interruptions of friends stopping by or me trying to put a smile on the glum faces of the confused kids, I had even more time to think about him. I missed him, yet inside I raged at him too for leaving me like this.
I didn’t care what WPC Williams had said; I knew Simon too well to ever consider he’d walked out on us. The strength and support he’d shown me throughout an ugly year proved he was a fantastic husband and dad and I desperately needed to believe that he was still alive. Six months had passed since we’d last been united in grief and there I was again, but this time I was on my own and grieving for a man whose fate was unknown.
***
Today, 8.30am
He knew his fingers would tear through the soft, felt brim of his Fedora if he clutched it any tighter. But he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
He watched as she turned her back to close the door and noted how she averted his gaze when she walked towards the centre of the lounge. Time hadn’t eroded her natural grace, he thought. The crow’s feet around the cool quartz of her eyes were new to him and the narrow lines across her forehead stretched further than he remembered. But they did nothing to quell how attractive she’d remained.
Her grey hairs were like perfectly placed brush strokes in an oil painting, all the better for not being disguised by artificial colouring. Her bloom had far from faded and that made him feel awkward and dusty in comparison.
She had so much to say, but nowhere to begin. So she remained silent and knotted her fingers together tightly so he couldn’t see them shake. Try as she might, she did not want to look at him, but it was a struggle. Eventually she allowed her eyes to cautiously run over him.
His tanned face had filled out leaving his cheeks jowlier. His once natural washboard stomach had expanded, but was kept under restraint by his leather belt. His feet looked larger, which she realised was a peculiar thing to focus on.
Then her eyes became glued to him; fearing if they became unstuck, he would vanish. If he was to disappear again, she wanted to be there to see it. It had been years since she’d last glimpsed his appearance in any of the few remaining photographs left hidden in the attic. She’d forgotten how handsome he was, even now, then immediately chastised herself for thinking that.
He stood awkwardly and surveyed the lounge, trying to recall what was where when he was last inside it. The layout appeared familiar, albeit with fresh wallpaper, carpets and furnishings. But it felt so small in
“Yes,” I lied because I wouldn’t have told him off, instead I’d have wrapped myself around him and held on for dear life.
“Has he gone to see Billy?” asked Robbie, his face beginning to crumple. I swallowed hard.
“No, he hasn’t.”I knew he hadn’t. I prayed he hadn’t.
“But how do you know?” scowled James.
I looked into the distance where the stream melted into the fields and said nothing. The fishing continued in silence and they caught nothing while their little brains digested what I’d had to say, as best they could. None of us wanted to imagine a life without him.
8.10pm
I sat on a patio chair, wrapped myself in your navy blue chunky Aran sweater and waited for the day to merge into dusk. The cordless phone I’d asked Caroline to buy for me was never more than a foot away. But it was as silent as the world around me. Only the moths clamouring around a candle’s flame in the Moroccan lantern kept me company. Directionless and unsteady, we had a lot in common.
I poured the last trickle from a bottle of red wine into my glass and waited. That’s all I’d done for three days - wait.
When I was inside our house I was homesick for a place I’d never left. But it had become claustrophobic without Simon and I dreaded the nights. Because without the interruptions of friends stopping by or me trying to put a smile on the glum faces of the confused kids, I had even more time to think about him. I missed him, yet inside I raged at him too for leaving me like this.
I didn’t care what WPC Williams had said; I knew Simon too well to ever consider he’d walked out on us. The strength and support he’d shown me throughout an ugly year proved he was a fantastic husband and dad and I desperately needed to believe that he was still alive. Six months had passed since we’d last been united in grief and there I was again, but this time I was on my own and grieving for a man whose fate was unknown.
***
Today, 8.30am
He knew his fingers would tear through the soft, felt brim of his Fedora if he clutched it any tighter. But he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
He watched as she turned her back to close the door and noted how she averted his gaze when she walked towards the centre of the lounge. Time hadn’t eroded her natural grace, he thought. The crow’s feet around the cool quartz of her eyes were new to him and the narrow lines across her forehead stretched further than he remembered. But they did nothing to quell how attractive she’d remained.
Her grey hairs were like perfectly placed brush strokes in an oil painting, all the better for not being disguised by artificial colouring. Her bloom had far from faded and that made him feel awkward and dusty in comparison.
She had so much to say, but nowhere to begin. So she remained silent and knotted her fingers together tightly so he couldn’t see them shake. Try as she might, she did not want to look at him, but it was a struggle. Eventually she allowed her eyes to cautiously run over him.
His tanned face had filled out leaving his cheeks jowlier. His once natural washboard stomach had expanded, but was kept under restraint by his leather belt. His feet looked larger, which she realised was a peculiar thing to focus on.
Then her eyes became glued to him; fearing if they became unstuck, he would vanish. If he was to disappear again, she wanted to be there to see it. It had been years since she’d last glimpsed his appearance in any of the few remaining photographs left hidden in the attic. She’d forgotten how handsome he was, even now, then immediately chastised herself for thinking that.
He stood awkwardly and surveyed the lounge, trying to recall what was where when he was last inside it. The layout appeared familiar, albeit with fresh wallpaper, carpets and furnishings. But it felt so small in
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