The list was long and hand-written, spidery in black ink. It was structured by shop, the name of each underlined and followed by the shopkeeper’s name in brackets. It had a neat tear along one side and a doe-eyed donkey wearing a bulky saddle bag on the reverse. When my mother handed it over, saddle-side up, I said, ‘You ought to get me one of those.’
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It was spring and I was there to save my marriage. Not by having a baby, as couples have been known to do, but by confirming that my insides were barren. Rob had told me early on that he always imagined his life without children. That’s fine, I remember laughing, I’m not exactly yearning for motherhood. But then I noticed how I was patting my pockets. My keys, my phone, my wallet. I felt all the time like I’d forgotten something.
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I hadn’t heard from my mother for a month. Normally she left a voicemail once a week, informing me of her and Stanley’s whereabouts, occasionally asking how I was and even more occasionally asking after my own husband. Then, all of a sudden, she announced she was in London. Could we meet for breakfast? I wanted to say no, I didn’t have time. I’d love to, I said. Can’t be too picky when you’re one parent down.
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