I want to shake her.Scream at her.Pack her bags, take the girls and drive them somewhere safe.
But I don’t.I just say, ‘You can stay as long as you need.’
She nods.She doesn’t cry again, just sits down at the kitchen table while I pour popcorn into a bowl and wipe away my own tears with the back of my hand.
We settle in for the night.Moanaplays on the screen.The girls sing along.Issy drifts into silence.
And I sit there in the middle of it all, watching them – my fractured, hurting little family – and think:This is what matters.
Just this.
The decision to stay when it’s hard.
The decision to keep going.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I have no idea who first mentioned rock climbing to me.Oscar?Andrew?One of the dozens of Tinder boys with hiking emojis in their bios and thighs the size of tree trunks?Someone once said, ‘It’s the perfect combination of strength and strategy,’ and I remember nodding along, pretending that,Yes, I too am a person with hobbies and grip strength.
But it’s Monday.It’s raining.And the thought of going back to the office and pretending I care about the pH of charcoal toothpaste makes me want to throw myself into traffic.I call in sick.
Technically, I text in sick, which is different.Less aggressive.Then I stand in the living room and announce, ‘We’re going rock climbing.’
Issy looks up from the couch where she’s braiding Gemma’s hair with the precision of a stylist and the exhaustion of a woman three seconds away from crying.‘What?’
‘Rock climbing,’ I repeat.‘It’s a bonding thing.Builds confidence.And triceps.’
Gemma gasps.Billie flings herself across the room as if I said we’re going to Disneyland.
Issy, on the other hand, blinks slowly.‘It’s Monday.’
‘Yes.’
‘They have school.’
I gesture vaguely towards the shopping bags she brought with them.‘You forgot to pack Gemma’s uniform and Billie hates preschool anyway.’
Her eyes widen.‘Shit.’
Billie cheers.‘Mummy said a bad word!’
Issy groans.‘I can’t go home before Greg leaves.’
Which is, of course, the whole point.I don’t say it out loud, but we both feel the truth sitting between us like a third sister.So, we pile into my car, four of us in mismatched leggings and borrowed runners, and head to the nearest indoor climbing gym – because, apparently, rock climbing is what people do when they’re trying to feel alive and can’t afford therapy.
The place smells of chalk dust and ambition.Everyone looks very … vertical.Like they exist beyond the nine-to-five grind – and honestly, what do all these fuckers do for a living?
I register us at the front desk and sign my life away with a waiver that I only half read.I glance at the woman behind the counter, who has biceps that could probably bench press my lazy arse.She gives me a thumbs up and says, ‘You’re gonna do great!’
I feel nauseous.
The girls are bouncing in place.Issy’s biting one of her nails, which she only does when she’s nervous.Or angry.Or both.
We get strapped into harnesses that feel like adult diapers with rope attachments.A terrifyingly enthusiastic instructor gives us a rundown on safety, belaying, handholds and how not to die.
Then it’s time to climb.
Billie goes first, obviously.A little spider monkey on Red Bull.
