Jacob started to cry, probably not out of understanding but just from the tone of his mother’s voice. Ever didn’t have a response, save a quiet:

‘I’m going to read Jacob a story, you can stay if you like but, please, he needs to be calm before he goes to sleep.’

‘Fuck you!’

Came the reply and the door shut firmly, with a positive close, but not, he noticed, a slam. The temper was worn out and he thought the words had been calculated to punish and cause a temporary pain. Which of course they did.

He couldn’t now remember what had brought this extreme revelation to the proceedings save that it was about the usual why didn’t she carry on doing her job, it would bring her some satisfaction, and her consistent response of why should she. She’d married him, he was a successful lawyer, why the fuck did she need to work. It was her choice and she didn’t want to do it anymore.

Because, love-of-my-life-wife, if you don’t want to work, then maybe when I get back in the evenings and I’m tired, as much as I love doing all the domestic things, just once, just fucking once, it would be great if a meal was cooked or Jacob had been bathed, so I could, you know, relax.

But he never put voice to those thoughts, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, not quite like that. Close to it, but no, when he did, when he had spoken out, it was with just a little more fucking tact, for God’s sake.

It made no difference.

He was tired of it all, in his own way, but had never considered the end of the marriage, let alone the thought that he might hear those words.

Not the cruellest words he could hear.

He continued with the bedtime process, told Jacob his story. A story that was not from a book but one that continued over the months to pour effortlessly out of his head, about Billy and Pete and Rosie, the redheaded beauty who joined the two boys in their endless adventures and who they both adored, and Mr Magee who always got them out of trouble. Jacob’s little sobs had quieted now, and his eyes started to close as Ever reflected on the possibility of the truth having been spoken.

His eyes too closed, lying next to the bundle that he loved more than anything. And he wondered behind his closed eyes why the idea of divorce never came into his mind.

*

The repeated question started with:

‘Hey, where the fuck have you gone?’

Rising to a shout—

‘Hey! Hey!’

Then the discussion of occupation and intentions in life continued and the not always inevitable exchange of contact information was begun.

‘So, email is always the easiest way to get hold of me,’

She was saying, but he was not fully in her world.