The Fallout of Divorce
Dad lived a stone’s throw away but we never saw him
“Hey Cherry, look, you can see Dad’s building from your window! Look! I bet that’s his bedroom window! Let’s go and see him and find out!”
“We’re not allowed,” was Cherry’s response.
“He’s our father, of course we’re allowed!”
“Dunno.”
“Come on, it’s Sunday, he won’t be at the office. He’s living right there!”
Once I persuaded her, we got dressed, went down the road, and found the bell for Dad’s flat. He answered the intercom.
“It’s us Dad, we’ve come to see you!” I shouted.
I had taken to shouting. It was a futile effort for attention — any attention. Nine times out of ten, all I got was a peremptory command from my mother to lower my voice. It seemed the only people who had any interest in what I had to say were my younger brother and sister, who loved the stories I made up for them. I was only eight but I mothered them and played with them a lot. Cherise’s default mode was sullen resentment, and she rarely engaged benignly, especially after the divorce.
My mother never played, or talked to us about anything personal. We had to rely on her own mother’s stories to learn anything about her. She didn’t chat, she…
