She was thirty-two when her twelve-year-old daughter married her new husband, aged twenty-two. The girl was twelve, he twenty-two, her mother thirty-two. The day before, he had become her mothers husband. They broke the news to her that morning.
The girl locked herself in her bedroom and did not emerge all day. They called for herher mother stood at the door, suggesting trips to the cinema, the fairground, walks in the park, visits to friends. No reply. Lying on her bed, she wept first, then slept. Later, she stared blankly at the ceiling. By evening, hunger forced her out.
Years passed before she adjusted. Every word from her mother was met with distrust, every shared glance with contempt. She was insolent, crude, brimming with hate. Her mothers younger sister tried speaking to her, but she refused to listen. Often, she thought of running away. Once, she didhiding in a neighbors attic stairwell until the cold drove her to her aunts.
When her mother came to fetch her, the girl was already warm and fed. Her mothers hands shook slightly, her eyes brimming. She had come alone.
They took a cab home. The girl studied her mothers profileshe looked old. But he was beautiful. Then, for a month, he vanished mysteriously. The girl asked nothing; her mother said nothing. The house felt as it once hadjust the two of them. Slowly, they mended things, and the girl settled.
But then he returned. Her mothers young husband. In time, she grew used to him, accepting he was now part of their lives. At eighteen, over lunch, she passed him a knife, lingering on his hand longer than needed. She held his gaze; he did not flinch. Her mother, pale, looked down. The meal ended in silence.
Another day, when her mother was out, she pressed her forehead to his back, holding her breath. For a moment, he froze. Then he turned, gently pushed her away, gripped her shoulders, and told her not to be foolish. She wept violently: “Why her? Shes oldwrinkled! Dont you see? Why choose an old woman?”
He brought her water, tucked her into a chair with a blanket, then left, slamming the door. She wept, knowing she had to goto student halls or a flat of her own. Rejected like an unwanted kitten. Cast aside. Humiliated.
He was so beautiful. She dreamed of him. When he stayed away, her mother said nothing. The two of them wandered the house like ghosts.
Eventually, he returned. Her mother was out; she sat alone in the kitchen, scribbling notes over tea. When he entered and sat across from her, her heart stuttered. Wearily, he met her eyes: “I love your mother. Accept it. Its her, not you. Lets not drag this out.” He did not look away.
That night, she lay dry-eyed, hollow. The next morning, she stumbled upon him and her mother kissing in the kitchen. Nauseated, she fled to the bathroom.
She moved to student housing. Her mother begged her to return, then later gave her money for a flat.
By twenty-fivehim thirty-five, her mother forty-fivetheir relations had almost normalised. She visited; they lunched, laughed, talked. Her aunt once said, “Thank goodness you grew up.” Her mother was content, serene. Her husband remained beautiful. Staggeringly so. She realised she compared every suitor to hima thought that unsettled her.
Then came an ill-fated affair with a married man who refused to leave his wife. She loved him, waited outside his work, wept. She refused to be a secret. It was agony. He took her to the seaside, bought gifts, wondered why marriage and children were necessary. To him, domesticity was dull.
She shook her head stubbornly. She remembered her mother kissing him in the kitchenherself fleeing, disgusted. She couldnt fathom love being different. Gentle. True.
That year, she was adrift. Rarely home, she bumped into her mother in cafés, visited occasionally. Her mother had thinned, still meticulous. Her husband, ever charming. Now grown, she finally grasped the depth of her mothers love.
At twenty-eighthim thirty-eight, her mother forty-eighta job opportunity took her to another city. Or rather, she sought escape from three draining years of dead-end romance.
She thrived. Even began dating a charming, single colleague. It felt like time to marry, settle.
Her mothers husband visited on business. Over lunch, she felt light, cheerful. She spoke of her new life; he listened, answered. Then she noticed his handsa sudden, visceral urge for him to hold her.
He understood, hesitated, then spoke softly: “I love youthe wilful girl you were. I know your pain, your longing. Well always be friends. You can always rely on me.”
Awkward, she laughed: “What do you really want from me?”
Soon after, he called: her mother was ill. She rang her mother, who sounded weary but calm. “Come next weekend, not now. I miss you.” Then, unexpectedly: “Have you forgiven me? For him. I saw you loved him. Ive regretted how it happened a thousand times. Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.”
He called again: her mother was hospitalised. Shed come in two daysjust in time for the diagnosis.
She came. But not in time. He stood in the hospital corridor, hollow-eyed. Beautiful. Distant. He looked at her, then away.
After the funeral, she haunted the flatmoving objects, washing clean dishes, brewing and discarding tea. Scrubbing already-spotless windows.
He worked late, skipped dinners, slipped silently into their room.
Once, in his absence, she entered. The scent of her mothers perfume, of lost happiness, gripped her. Photos covered every surfacedresser, walls, bedspread. She shut the door sharply.
She had never understood their love. And now she never would.
