The Vanishing of Audrey Wilde

Houses are never just houses. I'm quite sure of this now. We leave particles behind, dust and dreams, fingerprints buried on wallpapers, our tread in the wear of the stairs. And we take bits of the houses with us. [...] We grow up. We stay the same. We move away, but we live forever where we were most alive.

I wonder if we're only our true selves as children, before life starts to go wrong.

Her judgemental younger self has no idea that she will have a daughter too one day, and that the thought of her little girl ever leaving home will make her feel like weeping.

We may not have a new roof by then. But we will have flowers. Far more important, wouldn't you agree?

Separation creates experiences that are no longer shared, parts of each other's lives in which they no longer live.

Her complexion still undimmed by motherhood's broken nights.

We let him sag to the paving beside the pool’s edge. Can we really do it? Who will do it? Which of us has the stomach? But the sun is rising higher. There’s no time to think. A stone goddess waits, her hand protruding just so, ready to crack a drunken falling head, something that might explain his injury. The water is strewn with rose petals, plucked off by the rain, that will tuck over his body like a thick pink blanket. We wait, hanging on to our old selves a little longer. Then Flora nods, and the nod travels from one of us to the other like a parcel of light, a binding acknowledgment of a sisterhood that is bigger than Harry, lust, love, or marriage, a loyalty that rides above all others. In the end, it doesn’t matter who does it—Flora first, a firm hand in the small of his back, then Pam, a second later, harder, with her foot—since we all watch him sink beneath the surface, the back of his shirt bulging with air, like a lung holding on to its last breath. We lean forward, peering through a gap in the