But in that first winter, the pressures of physical survival gone, faced simply with this life and that life, given so much time, there was a space, inevitable I can see now, where it all had to be gone over. It is easy to be calm about it now, to see that there had to be a time when a balance sheet would be drawn up. It was terrifying then, a loss and a confusion, a feeling of weightlessness and not existing. I was overwhelmed by the old Abra, became her for a while, full of cold and logic (although that had not been how she was, had it?). I condemned what I saw: a young woman with two children and a loving husband, who had inexplicably disappeared, abandoned them, vulnerable, hurting, who had gone off selfishly to something else — something much easier, no doubt, Abra said. And what right does this woman have to selfish pleasure? None, she made her life, she must live with the consequences, she created these other people and their need for her, and now she must fulfill them. And that is normal.

It is not normal, it goes against all instincts, it is — well, it is mad — to turn away from that. It is a breakdown, something that requires help, a renewed vision of reality, for of course, Abra said, things never go just as they should, but isn’t that part of growing up, all of growing up, learning that and learning to live with it, deal with it, make the best of it. Face it, Abra said, for this is life and reality. The tragedy of it, or even just the unhappiness, the discontent, is a measuring stick: if we can deal with that, then we are survivors; if we try to run away, we are broken down; we have had a breakdown. We are mad.