She thought she’d disposed of these moments long ago. But now, in a house of her own, with children and a husband of her own, with dusk and dinnertime coinciding once again, they had begun to creep back in. And with them came a feeling, a presentiment, that she would eventually destroy this good life, for wasn’t her need to write like her parents’ need to drink? A form of escape, a way to detach? And, like the alcohol, it weakened and often angered her, left her yearning for the kind of rare and extraordinary ability she’d never have. What had her mother yearned for? She’d married at nineteen. Had one child. (Any more would have put me in the nuthouse, she used to say to people who asked.) Died at fifty. (Alone in a rented room, her father having left her for someone who let him be the only drunk.) After her mother’s death she’d searched her drawers for clues but there was nothing but a dinner party planner and a few manila envelopes of photographs stuck together. No note, no apology (it didn’t take her long to realize this was what she was really looking for). What had her mother’s life consisted of? When she came home from school in the afternoons, her mother would either be on the phone or flipping through a magazine, and even though she’d be doing nothing that she couldn’t continue doing now that the bus had come, a terrible wave of sadness seemed to pass through her, as if her daughter were the sun itself, setting on all her dreams. Her mother would often make herself a drink then, though she would rinse out the glass and put it back to dry on the paper towel on the shelf so that when her father came home she could pretend the one he made her was her first.

The book lay on the couch. Once again she took it in her hands. He’d crossed out nearly half the words. His red ink covered the margins of every page. He had an opinion about every choice. A grown woman would not own a toboggan! This is not the kind of man who would order a salami sandwich! She flipped again to the last chapter. It began with the four sentences she had written this morning, though he’d struck them through with triple lines, then a wavy one on top, and if she hadn’t been familiar with the words already she wouldn’t have been able to make them out. She’d been right; it was crap. The entire chapter was obliterated like that, his annotation no longer limited to the sides but covering the crossed-out type, the hand furious and uncontrolled, ending with a huge YOU CAN’T DO THIS!!!!! in the space left on the last page. Still, she’d had no idea she was so close to the end.