The Yellow Night-Light
A yellow moon-shaped night-light still glows in Mara's nursery after Daniel moved out. Ten nights after Lily was born, it was the only gentle thing.
A yellow moon-shaped night-light still glows in Mara's nursery after Daniel moved out. Ten nights after Lily was born, it was the only gentle thing.
A quiet Saturday, parents out, seventeen and alone in the garden, until shouting starts upstairs between his brother and sister and does not stop.
For three years Mara has kept a cheap paring knife wrapped in a dish towel at the back of the drawer. On a wet Saturday in October she finally takes it out.
Rain has soaked through her jacket, trousers and shoes by the middle of the delivery round. An elderly man takes his mail dry, and the round goes on.
Bethany's order is delivered to the graduate flat she moved out of months ago. Recovering one parcel means contacting whoever lives there now.
Her husband asks one quiet question across the kitchen table: why. Twelve good years of marriage, and she has no answer that will satisfy him.
Emma has been distant for six months, then asks for a break. While she stays at her sister's, he cleans the flat and finds an old notebook.
In November 2020 the relationship lives on a screen: late calls, early messages, hours of talk. Twenty-one and hurt before, she keeps her options open.
A spilled coffee on a rainy Monday stretches a five-minute queue into an hour of talk. Emma and Daniel keep meeting at the same shop, the same vanilla latte.
Liam is late again, donuts already waiting for a meeting he has not reached. Ten months in a new country have not taught him patience.