Not even as a child, a lonely and tortuous phase that led to lonely and angst ridden teens when I finally decided that romantic love was a myth and have yet to be proved wrong, had I ever been so happy. All three of us and even the house seemed to settle as if the whole world had suddenly become a large comfy chair.
As the months passed and the divorce dragged its legal heels I set about clearing away the accumulated detritus of a twenty-five year failed marriage. Life became a never-ending stream of financial advisors, builders, decorators, plumbers, chaos and skips. Nothing was sacred not even my memories; a huge chunk of my life, his face, the sound of his voice, becoming nothing more than a troubled sleep that vanishes in the light of a bright spring morning. Life with only my children took on a dreamlike quality, far too content to possibly be sustainable and about as real as me jetting off on holiday to New York without them.