So there you are tra-laing through your scrumptious little life, when oops! you carelessly lose your husband.
So you wallow and wail and cry. You eat nothing but cucumber for a fortnight and convince yourself that having lost a stone he is bound to be wowed all over again by your sheer beauty and fall apologetically into your arms.
Some days you clean the bath till your fingers get all wrinkly and other days you shove the nonsense littering the floor into a cupboard, apply too much make up and hope that the appearance of all being well will fool all well-wishers and nay- sayers into believing that you are going to be fine.
You are going to be fine. You hear it a lot and doubt it with every fibre of your being. You try to resist phoning him and give in at quarter past midnight when the sheer shock of him not being here finally hits. So you scream and carry on something awful. You tell him that he can’t do this to you , that you will die without him. You tell him that if he just comes back everything will be alright. That you will be a better person. That you are grateful to him for having done this awful thing because now you can face up to all that is wrong.
Strangers ask you how you are and you burst into tears. A certain look in your friends husband’s eye, a look of sympathy, of understanding, makes you weep. Your little boy sits on your knee and wipes away your tears. Your neighbours ring you daily to check you are ok. And too many times, usually after the baby is fast asleep , you find yourself in the kitchen, always the kitchen, muffling your screams into a
You don’t write anything. Though words are what you know will sustain you. You don’t write anything because you are waiting to wake up so you can form sentences and paragraphs from this nightmare. Once you find yourself sinking down the wall, begging him to come home. Vomiting into the sink when he say’s he can’t.
Then one lemon coloured morning you wake up and you understand that he is gone. That, for now at least, he isn’t coming back, and as suddenly as they started, the tears stop.
You read somewhere "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom" and it makes sense.
And though you aren’t quite ready to blossom, already you can feel yourself unfurl.
I can’t talk about it yet. I can’t say, this then is the reason why. But I want to say thank you. to every single one of you. To every woman who has told me her story. To all those who have sent me tiny treats, best wishes and virtual hugs. I kind of feel like the hysteria has passed, and though I am not quite resigned to my new life, I can see that it is one stuffed with possibility. That I am strong enough to face the challenge of a whole new life…