In contrast, the letters bound by the pink ribbon begin with the heady, raw passion of a man in love, his words declaring the physical void where his adored wife should be, then tapering into impatience and annoyance at having to explain his movements, addressing her declarations with claims of hard work, endless evenings in monotonous business meetings, living out of a suitcase and the joyless existence of hotel life, before morphing into the passive aggression of someone who has tired of providing a constant alibi. The final letters become companionable, as though he is penning a postcard to a favourite aunt, and I almost feel pity for the woman my mother was. I can see ripples of that woman now, when she is sprawled on her bed, wailing at the injustice of her lonely life, swearing to anyone that will listen that he is having an affair, won’t take her anywhere, doesn’t love her anymore. When she is snarling at me because I am there and he isn’t, lashing out in anger and leaving bruises that she will forget about pretty quickly, but I will feel for days. Until he sends her a sparkly gift and he is her husband again, the man she adores, the one she cannot be without, and I get a temporary reprieve from being her scratching post.

The last two letters to him share the news that she is pregnant. It would seem a brief sojourn back to England one weekend and a bottle of expensive champagne resulted in me being brought into existence. My mother is overjoyed, her words rushing over themselves, talk of bringing them closer to each other, demands that he has to return home now, that she cannot do this alone. The second letter was sent soon after, before he had even had time to respond to the previous one. In it, she accuses him of ignoring her previous letter, her anguish at knowing he didn’t want children, swearing that she hadn’t planned the pregnancy, that it is a happy miracle. She promises the child won’t get in his way, won’t stifle him at all.

The words, “It will very likely not be a girl, so we can still sell the house and return to London as you want,” blur in front of my eyes.

I open the last few letters in a hurry, the pages catching on the envelope as I tug them free. He addresses the news of her pregnancy, saying his silence was because he needed time to get his head around the news, that she knew of his decision to not have children, that he wanted a long and successful career, one where he could travel, they could see the world together without the burden of having a child in tow. He ended it by saying he would be home soon and they could discuss the options available to them.