Letters to Claire

Edith loved mothering the two younger kids, but preferred her own space. She was in another bedroom, and a quick check showed that she, too, was now definitely asleep.

The house creaked and outside, two possums were fighting over God knows what, but in the kitchen it was quiet. I stood there on the wooden floor and thought about the many changes my life had bought about. Sometimes, letting go seems the hardest thing, but letting go isn't synonymous with giving up, and I think sometimes we forget that. Letting go is just that -- leaving the past behind.

I shouldn't have been talking to Claire about Ryan and Georgie, I should have been talking to Marnie. With every text I sent my wife, I was denying myself the opportunity to move on. I was living in the past.

I picked up my phone.

Claire, the time has come for me to stop this. I'm talking to a ghost. Or maybe I'm not. Maybe you were right, and maybe there is a God and maybe, just maybe, you're receiving these messages. I like to think that if you are, then you, too, know that the end has come, that I need to fully move on. Frankly, though, I think you are gone. That has always been the most challenging part of your death -- accepting that you are GONE.

Thank-you for being my wife. Thank-you for giving me Luther. I will never forget the time we had together.

I pressed send. I waited until the words 'message delivered' appeared. Claire's phone, plugged into the charger, lit up. I still didn't know her passcode, not that I'd tried to find it. What secrets lay within her phone was hers, and had died with her.

Guilt overcame me. I picked up the phone and sent her another text.

I'm sorry for loving Marnie. You have no idea how guilty I feel at times. I wish there was some way I could discuss it with you, and get your approval.

Again, I pressed send.

This time, there was no 'message delivered' missive. Claire's phone did not light up. Instead, I received a delivery failure message, advising me that Claire's mailbox was full. The very last message that I'd successfully sent her had been an admission that our relationship was over.

I re-read the final message I'd tried to send, the one that had failed to deliver. A chill ran down my spine. It was over. My marriage. My marriage was finally, a hundred percent over, and there was over and there was no room for apologies.

As I said, I don't believe in God, but sometimes, it's bloody hard not to. And maybe, in ten years, I'd consider going back to the farm. Dad would be fifty-five. That would give me ten years to learn everything I needed to do, just in case he did as predicted and fell off the perch in his mid-sixties.

The End