Sublime

‘Rosy, don’t nurse your wishes. You can’t help having them, but don’t nurse them, or sure to God you’ll get what you’re wishing for.’

She draws in her breath: a husband who groomed her as a fourteen-year-old child; a narcissistic mother; two problematic children; and brushes with social services. But the compelling things feel precious somehow, half-formed and delicate, not yet ready for the judgment of her husband.

Poor multiply raped Litzie became capable of speech, her first utterance consisting of words of thanks to Mrs. Hodge for speaking for her, during all of those mute and lonely years.

She and Holly drank the entire time, round the clock. No other way to get through it. Empty wine bottles lined her mother’s dresser and the floor below.

A hectic and emotionally disruptive childhood – my mother married four rather peculiar men in quick succession (one ran away, one was carted away, one passed away and the other we just told to piss off) – forced me, at a young age, into the role of peacemaker. My fall-back position: let’s pretend everything’s alright. So, quick, tidy the sitting ro

irascibly