leave her entire estate to the Lost Dogs’ Home.”
I walk away from them, toward the kitchen. I need to unload the dishwasher and Nettie is in no state to talk anyway. I think of Diana up there in that huge room. I wonder if she’s moved since I left her. I make her a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea, and then I head up to her room, let myself in. She’s in the bed now, but her eyes are open. She stares at the wall.
“Most people have left,” I say, resting the plate and mug on her side table. “Patrick and Nettie are still here, but I’ll order them an Uber. The house is tidy, more or less, but I’ll come back and help you vacuum and mop tomorrow.” Diana stares at me, through me. “There’s a sandwich and a cup of tea here, in case you feel like it.”
I wait, but she doesn’t respond, so I turn and walk back down the hallway. I’m just letting myself out when I hear the faint words: “Thank you, dear.”
43
Diana
The past …
It was Tom who insisted that Ollie never know he wasn’t his father. Initially, I’d disagreed with him, but Tom had been adamant.
“I don’t think we should lie to him, Tom. You shouldn’t lie to children.”
“People always say that. But why should it be a blanket rule? Surely it should be more of a risk/benefit analysis? By not telling Ollie, we’d be risking him finding out later and blaming us for his missing out on a relationship with his biological father who, may I add, never wanted him to exist in the first place. But what about the benefits of not telling him? Ollie would believe he was born into a family with two parents that loved each other and wanted him. He’d believe he had a full biological sister. He’d have all that well-adjustedness that children from two-parent families have. Why should we deny him that, just so he can’t blame us later? After all, what are parents for if not to blame for your life’s troubles?”
Tom had been so immovable that ultimately I’d gone along with his wishes. His logic may not have added up but if he was willing to carry the secret to his deathbed for the sake of my son’s adjustment, I didn’t see how I was in a position to argue. It was the decision a father would make, I figured.
So I let him make it.
Tom’s not here.
I’ve spent so long trying not to be weak that I’d forgotten how wonderful it feels. For as long as I could remember, I’ve had to be strong for my family. And being strong has its payoffs. It makes you feel powerful, like you can face anything and survive. It’s the reason I’ve lived my life the way I have, working hard, not wallowing, not accepting weakness. But power is overrated. And being weak—and wallowing—is surprisingly lovely.
Tom’s not here.
I lie on the downstairs sofa and stare into the unlit fireplace. The cleaner comes and clears it out on Tuesdays and Thursdays and today is a Wednesday, which is a relief. I might cancel the cleaner. I can clean the house myself.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Tom says in my mind. But it’s not ridiculous. I’d always found the cleaners to be more of a hindrance than a help, to be honest. To me, cleaner day always meant a furious whip around to ensure I wouldn’t be deemed a pig, followed by a need to make myself scarce because being home, twiddling my thumbs, while some (invariably) foreign girl worked up a sweat scrubbing unspeakable things from my husband’s en suite toilet was just too awful to bear. Tom didn’t share my worries about cleaners. If he was home, he’d have languished on the couch, newspaper and coffee in hand. Once, I recall watching him lift one foot, then the other, as the girl vacuumed under his boots. He winked at her and she chuckled. Only Tom could get away with that.
Tom’s not here.
I’m not lonely. There are people I could call to keep me company. Ollie would come, I know that. He’d leave the office in a heartbeat and come straight over, delighting in the opportunity to do a good deed for his old mum. This is probably the reason his business is failing—his priorities are out of whack. He needs to stay at work and make a living to support his wife and family.
Nettie might come