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Back Walking on Sunshine Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. By the same author
  4. Dedication
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. Three Months Later
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. Epilogue – Five Years Later
  44. Acknowledgements
  45. An extra note from me …
  46. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

I want to yell. I want to scream. I want to tell Nick that sometimes I look at my life and wonder what I’m doing it all for. Sometimes I think my kids hate me. Sometimes I don’t think I’m very good at this mum thing. Sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed. Sometimes sex just makes me feel shit. Sometimes I wonder why I’m living when she’s not. Sometimes I don’t want to mother. Sometimes. Occasionally. For a fleeting second. I want it to be over. Sometimes I want to disappear.

Snap.

That thought.

Frustration rips through me. I can’t shout. Mustn’t wake the babes. Instead I pick up the pizza remains, my whole body fuelled and loaded as I chuck it as hard as I can at the opposite wall.

It sticks for a second. Momentarily stunned into place before sliding into a heap of slop on the floor.

I am that heap.

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3

Mike

I never realized how soothing it is to just sit and stroke velvet. To sit with your palm resting on the fabric while your thumb goes back and forth. Silky soft against your skin. It’s therapeutic. Calming.

I never would’ve chosen velvet as a material to have on my sofa, especially not this green colour that covers our three-seater from sofa.com – it would’ve made me think of the teenagers who loiter at bus stops and parks in their matching tracksuits, but Pia loved it. She had an eye for putting a room together. She was the cool one. The one with effortless style and taste that could transform the blandest of rooms into something people would gush about when they came over.

It’s more mint, actually. The sofa. Mint. She’d tell me off for saying green. Mint. Mint fresh. Probably sounds terrible but it’s never felt too much. Everything in the room – the cushions, the prints, the vases, the side tables, the pouffes and armchairs – it’s all just pulled together in such a way that it makes sense. Nothing stands out to pull focus, it’s a team effort, building character and class. It’s a calming space.

Up and down, up and down, my thumb goes.

I sit.

I’ve been sitting here for some time.

I’ve spent a lot of time sitting.

I don’t want to be doing. Forgetting. Moving.

But then I do, because sometimes the emptiness is so vast that I fear falling into it if I stay still too long.

Thoughts come and go as I stroke. I don’t hold on to any of them. I breathe them in and out like I’ve been learning to.

Outside the loose paving stone knocks to alert me of feet walking up the front path.