Moving again, the past growing further away like a dot on the horizon. If I never stopped would it disappear? Couldn’t I just keep looking out the window forever? The train, being regional, stopped in nearly every town it went through. The paltry offerings of the dining car (a soggy corned beef sandwich, weak yellow coffee) had to tide me over until Washington, and then I’d decide what to do next. It wasn’t as though the Australian embassy kept a hostel for jilted brides. I walked up and down the cars, watching the restless children kicking each other while their mothers slept, the large negro family with their mouthwatering selection of food, the businessmen in dark suits and well-shined shoes. I wore my canary-yellow pencil skirt and jacket of light wool, with my best stockings and a pair of low-heeled black pumps. On top of my suitcase in the rack above my seat were my cream belted coat and matching hat and in the coat pocket a pair of black leather gloves. I wore my nicest things, for wherever I went I would be making an impression upon strangers, and I did not want them to guess the truth: that I was lost now. Far from safety; far from home.

After a few hours I pulled out a notepad and pen.

Dear Roy,

I know I should have said goodbye but your mother thought it best I just leave.

No, I had to take responsibility. I crumpled the page and stuffed it in the seat pocket. I stared out the window at the rivulets of rain streaming across the glass, blown sideways by the wind and speed, and began again.

Dear Roy,

I want to say goodbye, and explain my leaving. I am sorry that I wasn’t brave enough to say this in person. Ever since arriving at the farm I knew that I didn’t belong—and it seemed like the harder I tried, the harder it was to fit in. When I married you everything moved so fast, and I was desperate to get away from my family. I didn’t think about what I was getting myself into. Did you? We didn’t know what the next day would bring, so we weren’t thinking about one, two years down the track. I can’t see us ever being happy like we were in Sydney. We can’t ransom our whole lives on that mistake. Maybe mistake’s the wrong word. I did love you, Roy. I wish I still felt that way, or even the possibility of it. But instead I feel trapped by the past and dread the future. I hope you can forgive me, and that you can find happiness with someone else. Once I have an address I’ll send it to you, so you can apply for a divorce. I’ll remember our time in Sydney fondly, and think of you with the memory of our love.

Sarah