‘He’s at it again. I don’t know how you put up with it’
My 12 year old walks in to the kitchen with this declaration.
With hands elbow deep in the kitchen sink trying to clean up the remnants of the day’s breakfast, I turn back to give her a look.
‘You are not allowed to talk like that about him’ – I chide her.
‘Well, then somebody has to tell him he needs to change. I hate school, but I hate being at home more. I am just choosing the better of the 2 evils when I leave this house every morning’.
I guess it’s this taken for granted feeling that my mother had warned me about. Or probably my baby thinks that after the immense pain I suffered in bringing her out into this world, nothing she does or says could hurt me more.
With no further hurtful words, she left the house, to a world of her own.
I am still doing the dishes, but my mind wanders.
I could hear him upstairs, cursing and hurrying.
Maybe it is because he grew old. Or maybe it is because he grew old with me.
I wonder if he would have been like this had he been married to any of the other girls from the numerous names signed in his precious book collection. Each time I found him lost in thought, I had always wondered which one of those pretty faces he was missing.
I hear the front door slam shut. His way of letting me know that he was out of the house.
I couldn't have asked for a better start to my 16’Th anniversary day. A day forgotten both by my husband and daughter.
All it took was less than a minute for the water to go down the drain…in one swift gush.