7-8 Years Old

No holiday this year. Instead: Trial separation!

It must have been mutually agreed because I helped them move out. We were very civilised and they didn’t go far, so I could share in the custody of May.

We agreed we could see other people. I tried to see women, but the women I could see now I couldn’t see their faces. I couldn’t see their hair or their arms, legs, bodies. I couldn’t see anything at all. I saw instead the strong arms of the men she could see.

I saw 2 pairs. A young pair (a fling) and a pair belonging to an old flame, Herculean both. They bring gifts for May, when it’s my turn for custody she spends a lot of time demonstrating them.

I talk to the school in fits: "This must be a terrible strain on her."

I go down there.

“It’s natural for you to worry.”

“I’m not worried”

Shivering.

“May obviously knows she is very much loved.”

She certainly has lots of presents.

Suddenly appalled by these fun-time Santas I decided to teach May cooking. First Bolognese with hilarious Italian accent, producing rivers of apple juice through our noses.

Then tikka massala, no accent (risky move during trial separation)

She is a gifted chef. Her focus and attention to detail are extraordinary as she writes the ingredients and method in her diary. Adds more yoghurt, more salt.

“No one is allowed to read my diary.” Dead serious

“Fair enough.”

“How d’you spell Spaghetti?”

I thought hard before stealing the diary. I was convinced that it would hold the truth about her mother. That there are no Arms. That separation was a silly idea. In the diary there must be a way for my family to be happy. I stole it after she fell asleep.

The stolen diary is pink with a ridiculous giraffe on the front. Who gave her this crap? I open the first page: Blank. Second: Blank. I remain alone because the diary is completely empty except for homework about Orca whales and two recipes that I have just taught her.

With a pencil:
“No Matter What. I will never read your diary” Rubbed out after.