There is no other woman.
There has never been another woman and I knew that within about four seconds of hearing his voice behind me, and I had still spent an entire day building the other thing.
The young woman is our daughter.
Tamsin is thirty-four years old.
I have not spoken to my daughter in eleven years. Not a telephone call. Not a card. Not four words across a room at his father’s funeral in 2018, where she was and where I did not look at her.
And every single person in my life believes that she cut me off.
My sister believes it. Four people at my church believe it. Two of her own cousins believe it, because they heard it from me, at a table, with a particular face on.
She did not. Not one word of that is true and I have let it stand for eleven years and corrected nobody.
I cut her off, in my own kitchen, in the October of 2014, in about four sentences. I have them word for word and I am not going to put them on this page, because they are worse written down than they were out loud, which is saying something.
It was about who she had married.
That is the whole of it. There is no second reason underneath it and there is no detail that makes it better, and I have looked for one for eleven years.
I was wrong about him, incidentally.
