I have told the boy listening in the dark that I love him, and closed his door. Tonight I think he’ll stay in there. A click of the door, then, and quiet in front and behind.
I grab the bag of dirty nappies that represent my day’s work and take it downstairs, out of the door, up the steps, across the little car park and over to the bin. I don’t put shoes on. I swing the nappies into the bin and then turn back, a few steps away, and stop. I want to stand for a minute and feel the gravelly asphalt under my bare feet and the sky over my head. The sun is setting behind clouds, the light cool. I breathe in. Out. Feel the pull of my bladder, as usual, and wonder how long I’ve needed to pee.
I look at our house, standing there peacefully with shuttered blinds, as though it’s always this quiet and composed. Half an hour ago, Henry screamed so loud over having his teeth brushed that I worried the neighbours might think we were branding him with an iron. No sign of that now. Just the little gabled entryway, the skylights open to the heavens, the blackout blind keeping two boys in sleep.
I don’t know how much longer we’ll be here. I am aching with anxiety about it all, but, looking at it now, I am suddenly aware of how hard it will be to leave. This house, this life. I cannot imagine bringing this to an end.
I walk back across the car park to the front door, and think about what Hilary Mantel wrote once.
‘There are no endings.
If you think so you are deceived as to their nature. They are all beginnings.
Here is one.’