“You made a promise to Matthew,” says Dad.
Mum nods.
The edifice of marriage – those who’ve committed to it, who protect it to death do they part. To be buried side by side, I think, as the ultimate goal of life, the measure of a successful union. Dad clears his throat and says, “I’d like to call Matthew; I feel sorry for him.” He starts to shuffle toward the stairs, to make a private call.
“Sorry for him?”
He stops and stares me down. “Yes, sorry for him. Who will cook for those boys?”
“So, I’m a charwoman, then?”
“Don’t be stupid.” He ambles down the hallway to the kitchen, where the old landline resides. They keep it for when storms take out cell service, which is more and more often these days.
“I wish you’d sit down,” I call after him. He turns and looks at me while I plead:
