Yes, we were in love, your father and I. For a time. And yes, we were separated before you turned five years-old, your brother, just two. Yes, we were young. Just a year older than you are now. But you can’t blame youth for everything. We squandered love as quickly as your dad would snatch up the electricity money my mum left quietly for me on the kitchen worktop. Wordless acts, both of them. I squandered my share of the love though, all by myself.
I fell in love with another man. Secretly. In the dead of nights. In his car. In the park. I climbed through his bed room window. I lied to people who trusted me. I am not proud of myself.
Deeply in love, I wish I had been warned. I have always carried my guilt in a quiet basket, tucked under my arm. My story a secret. Time has rolled over so much. But the imprints, you can feel them press and brush against your hand if you smooth the back of your palm over where the roiled earth of the past has been.
Katie is a fiction and memoir writer from Nottingham. Katie lives with her husband and four children and especially loves gardening in the Spring.
Photo – FFF