Page 107 of Every Silent Lie
Then I do something I’ve not been able to bring myself to do for months since they arrived. I go to the lounge and find the divorce papers. I don’t read them again, not this time. I flick to the back page, take the pen Dominic left me, and scribble my name across the bottom line.
Done.
I stuff them back in the envelope and put them in my bag to post tomorrow from work. No more hiding. I don’t think I can accept he’s having another child, can’t even contemplate forgiving him for that. She looked like she was due very soon, which means Dominic didn’t hang around for long after he walked out on me, but I haven’t the capacity to break that down.
It’s done. The memories tarnished. At least, my memories with him.
I will keep Noah’s memory alive.
And on that note, I go to the boxes in the corner and heave the one off the top of the stack, lowering it to the floor and kneeling. Lifting the flaps, I take the air I’m going to need and reach in, pulling out a framed picture.
And I look at his face for the first time in three years since I lost him. His beautiful, innocent, young face. Eyes that haven’t seen nearly enough of the world. A smile that didn’t bless enough people. “I miss you,” I whisper, my chest tightening. “I miss you so much it hurts.” I don’t take my eyes off him.
And I don’t hold back my tears. They hit like a tsunami, until they weaken every muscle and I fold to the floor on my side, holding his picture.
And I sob my heart out.
For my loss.
And for a future that frightens me.
I cried for an hour straight, even though I didn’t think there were any tears left in me. I was wrong. I drowned in them. And it was somehow cathartic. A different version of release than I experienced with Dec’s strength holding me. I didn’t know I needed to do this for myself and on my own. And not feel utterly destroyed by the tears. I will always, always love my little boy, and now I know I can breathe again, I will be okay.
After I dragged myself up off the floor and set the photo of Noah on the cabinet, I wiped the glass and cleaned and polished the silver frame. My mind naturally shifted to the date. In two days’ time, it will be three years since I’ve held you. A few extra tears slipped down my face.
Then I unpacked a few boxes, showered, dressed, and left to visit Mum.
I stop off at a store on my way, pulling off my hat as I walk under the heaters hanging above the door. I take a moment to scope the space before me. It’s not busy, hardly surprising given the weather. Snowing. Again.
Spotting a store guide at the bottom of the escalators, I tug off my gloves too, as I make my way over and scan the floors and list of departments. Lingerie. Second floor. I hop on the elevator and tuck myself to the right, remaining on the same step all the way to the top, resisting the urge to hurry up to get to where I need to be as quickly as possible. Three people pass my stationary form. All in a hurry. I’m not in a hurry. Not today.
Wandering around the displays, I take my time, looking at things I don’t need. Perusing. Browsing. I haven’t browsed in a store for years. Only one time does the familiar bile rise from my stomach, but it doesn’t make it past my chest. I push it down and focus on what I’m here for.
“Can I help you?” A smiley, middle-aged lady appears, a tape measure hanging around her neck.
“Yes, thank you. I need some tights.”
“Oh, lovely. Stockings? A special Christmas treat for the man in your life?” She quickly places a palm over her mouth. “Or woman! Darn it, I’m always being told off for assuming.”
I smile at her awkwardness. “Something less sexy. It’s a Secret Santa gift. She loves tights. All kinds of weird and wonderful prints.”
“Oh!” She chuckles. “Okay, maybe something from our novelty section.”
“Sounds great.”
She leads me to a table where five miniature Christmas trees twinkle atop of it, packets of tights hanging like baubles from the arms. “Something like this?” She plucks off a very familiar pair.
“She had those ones on last week,” I say. “Christ, I bet she’s got all of these.” I finger through a few more packets and see the candy canes, the elves, the tinsel fringed monstrosities. “Oh my God, she has. She’s got them all.” I have no idea what else I could possibly buy for her.
“Wait, I might have something.” She scurries off to the changing rooms, and I follow, my panic brewing, except today it’s for a very different reason. I don’t want to turn up for Secret Santa Day empty-handed, especially given I’m buying for Debbie. “These haven’t been put out on the display yet,” she says, rootling through a basket. “No room, you see, and we decided these ones would probably be the least popular.”
“Why?”
“Well, because they’re a bit snazzy.”
“She loves snazzy.”
The lady whips out a packet. “This snazzy?”
