I woke, more convinced to sell the house than ever. I went downstairs, had breakfast, and phoned an agent from home. I had no intention of telling our children. I didn’t want to hear their whines or remarks, because they never knew, not ever, that Patrick and I never loved each other.
We, Patrick and I, were not the kind of people who made memories. Our relationship was convenient, not significant.
Our memories would be cast back decades to the ones we had loved and lost, and better not to drown in retrospectives.
Before our children were born, and when they were very young, we would often have moments of pain where we’d sit alone, he in one place, I in another and feel the anguish of loss.
We didn’t share or try to console. It was part of our ‘agreement’ to leave each other their pain in private.
We went day to day, doing the best we could, taking as much pleasure as we could from little things.
For both of us, the house had been no more than a hotel room.
At the time, we were paying rent for a nothing flat and when one his relatives offered us this house we took it, for it was cheap and easy. But it was never the ‘dream home.’