Post by parvati patil macmillan on Nov 6, 2020 21:14:39 GMT -7
July 2022
“Parvati—”
“I know, Mummy. I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’ve heard it all already. It ‘isn’t done’. ‘What will people say?’ This and that and… I know. I know people talk, and I don’t need a lecture. Really, I don’t. It’s my marriage. I know what you’re going to say—that I should have tried harder. I should have made it work. I should have pretended that it wasn’t happening. I should have just—I should have swept it under the rug and gone on with my life! And I tried to do it. I really did. I tried!
“For years, Mummy! I tried to pretend that a little piece of me didn’t die inside every time I came home from work. I tried to act like it didn’t hurt every time I thought of him with another woman—who she was, what she had that I didn’t.
“Do you know what it’s like… to turn the other cheek when you don’t remember buying a shade of lipstick?! When you know that it’s not yours, and you know that his long hours at work aren’t because he’s got another meeting? And you’ve got two children at home who are too young to know what in Merlin’s name is going on, so you wait until they’ve gone to sleep before you let yourself cry, because you don’t want their questions about why their mum is sad.
“And, then—when they’ve gone off to school—you think it might get better because you’ve got your husband to yourself again for once, but no… It only gets worse. You start to realize that you’ve only lost the one thing that was keeping your marriage together. Your conversations are all forced, if you even talk to one another, and you can’t cry yourself to sleep because your husband’s still in bed with you, but you swear that you can smell another woman’s perfume on him. And so instead of crying yourself to sleep, you stay awake until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer. Until they burn, and you’re too physically exhausted to—to sleep with him—but you keep wondering where you went wrong. You wonder how you got there, and you wonder how long it will be before your children do catch on.
“You start to wonder if everyone knew before you did, if they could see it coming… if they knew and were too scared to tell you, as if that might break the illusion. And when your children are old enough to know that their mum and dad aren’t happily married and that life isn’t some fairytale, it’s too late. They can’t do anything about it, and neither can you. You pretend that you don’t know what your kids are talking about when they say that they could hear you yelling at night, and they ask you what it’s about. And you’re too embarrassed to admit that you haven’t got an answer for them, because you don’t even know anymore, either.
“And you wonder if they’re secretly relieved when you finally bring up that forbidden word—that you're finally getting a divorce, but then you feel guilty because they're not supposed to feel relieved about something like that, and then you feel you've failed as a parent… or not protected them enough… or…
“And you wonder why you’re crying to your mum instead of your twin sister, and then you remember that it's because she's got a perfect husband who would never—in a million years—do that to her, but yours has done, and you can't hold yourself together, because you've tried that already, and…
“I can’t. I’ve tried, and I—I can’t do it anymore. I’m not going back. I can’t.”
“I know, Mummy. I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’ve heard it all already. It ‘isn’t done’. ‘What will people say?’ This and that and… I know. I know people talk, and I don’t need a lecture. Really, I don’t. It’s my marriage. I know what you’re going to say—that I should have tried harder. I should have made it work. I should have pretended that it wasn’t happening. I should have just—I should have swept it under the rug and gone on with my life! And I tried to do it. I really did. I tried!
“For years, Mummy! I tried to pretend that a little piece of me didn’t die inside every time I came home from work. I tried to act like it didn’t hurt every time I thought of him with another woman—who she was, what she had that I didn’t.
“Do you know what it’s like… to turn the other cheek when you don’t remember buying a shade of lipstick?! When you know that it’s not yours, and you know that his long hours at work aren’t because he’s got another meeting? And you’ve got two children at home who are too young to know what in Merlin’s name is going on, so you wait until they’ve gone to sleep before you let yourself cry, because you don’t want their questions about why their mum is sad.
“And, then—when they’ve gone off to school—you think it might get better because you’ve got your husband to yourself again for once, but no… It only gets worse. You start to realize that you’ve only lost the one thing that was keeping your marriage together. Your conversations are all forced, if you even talk to one another, and you can’t cry yourself to sleep because your husband’s still in bed with you, but you swear that you can smell another woman’s perfume on him. And so instead of crying yourself to sleep, you stay awake until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer. Until they burn, and you’re too physically exhausted to—to sleep with him—but you keep wondering where you went wrong. You wonder how you got there, and you wonder how long it will be before your children do catch on.
“You start to wonder if everyone knew before you did, if they could see it coming… if they knew and were too scared to tell you, as if that might break the illusion. And when your children are old enough to know that their mum and dad aren’t happily married and that life isn’t some fairytale, it’s too late. They can’t do anything about it, and neither can you. You pretend that you don’t know what your kids are talking about when they say that they could hear you yelling at night, and they ask you what it’s about. And you’re too embarrassed to admit that you haven’t got an answer for them, because you don’t even know anymore, either.
“And you wonder if they’re secretly relieved when you finally bring up that forbidden word—that you're finally getting a divorce, but then you feel guilty because they're not supposed to feel relieved about something like that, and then you feel you've failed as a parent… or not protected them enough… or…
“And you wonder why you’re crying to your mum instead of your twin sister, and then you remember that it's because she's got a perfect husband who would never—in a million years—do that to her, but yours has done, and you can't hold yourself together, because you've tried that already, and…
“I can’t. I’ve tried, and I—I can’t do it anymore. I’m not going back. I can’t.”
