“Does being childless make you feel… unfulfilled?” asks my sister-in-law.
I pretend to ponder.
“I suppose you don’t miss what you never had,” I say, “bit like brains, really.”
My words take a moment to sink in, then she scurries away, weeping.
My mother is picking daffodils – cheery harbingers of hope, spring, renewal.
“You’re so bitter,” she complains, as my brother flounces into the garden.
“Do you have to be so damned acerbic all the time, sis?”
Silently I stare him out until he leaves, muttering.
Upstairs, I pull the tattered ultra-sound image from its hiding place.
Unfulfilled? Bitter? Acerbic?
Still in the midst of packing, storing, dumping stuff so it’s a quickie from me this week. Turning up for last week’s Friday Fictioneers proved too much altogether for me, but I think I see a light at the end of the tunnel now. Thanks to Rochelle, once more, for her leadership and patience. I’m sorely in need of the latter right now.