The Silent Treatment

There is a special type of grief that comes from packing up your expectations for your own future.

We were singing from two utterly different hymn sheets, and for the first time in our marriage, I wasn’t sure I could see a way back to harmony.

In life, there are so many things we always think we will get round to fixing—the slow puncture in the back wheel of a bike, the niggling ache, a fractured relationship. If there is one thing the past week has taught Frank, it is that you can never rely on time being on your side.

We were young, we were happy, we were fun. We would exhaust the mattress until the early hours, but still, when the lights were out and I had my head on the pillow, finally alone with my own thoughts, there was always that feeling of something being not quite right.

The thing was, for all my frustrations, I couldn't see a way out of it. He was, by most measures, a catch. Would I do better? Did I really have the energy to try? Deep down, I knew that I was hard to like, let alone love. I have so many edges, sharp ones at that, ones that can't be filed down. There was only so much that I could change about myself and surely I should settle for someone who was interested enough in me to stick around? If anyone knows how difficult that is to find, it's me.

So, there is always a chance to change your own story?” “Yeah, I’d say so.