A TV story unwittingly prompts a revisiting of old pain. We rake through the remains, he and I. It never does any good. I cry in bed, just before sleep, which doesn’t come. Not until later. Then I wake and wake and dream and dream. Having her in your life wouldn’t have made you happy, he says. She would have always let you down. Possibly, he is right. But I know and he knows that it’s not as simple as that. I must accept it as it is. That’s all I can do. She leaves, offers me no other choice.
