I remember the exact day Ethel shut the suitcase. It didnt rattle. It would be easier to swallow that. She closed it with the same delicacy she used for everything even when she was tearing me apart.
Did you take the toothbrush? I asked from the bedroom doorway.
She looked at me as if Id just asked her the time while the Titanic was going down.
Seriously, James? Thats all youre going to say?
Im not sure what else to say.
And that was the truth. By the third month every conversation ended the same way: in the fogladen lane between my mum and our marriage. It felt as if love were a cake that could only be sliced in one direction.
My mum called me a pest yesterday, Ethel said, folding the shirt Id given her for our anniversary. For the fourth time this week.
She doesnt know what shes talking about. She has Alzheimers.
I know, James. I know it well. But lately you dont seem to know what youre saying, or feeling, or where my mum ends and I begin.
I sat on the bed at the cold end where shed already drifted off.
Thats my mum, Ethel.
And Im your wife. Or I was. Im not even sure any more.
Mum shouted from the lounge about thieves whod stolen her youth, probably still staring at her reflection in the mirror.
You have to
Go, Ethel said, her voice so tired it ached in my bones. You always have to go.
When I came back after twenty minutes, having soothed Mum with biscuits and an old photo, Ethel was gone. On the pillow lay only a note:
I love you. But I cant love you from the waiting room of your own life any longer. Look after yourself. Look after her.
I laughed I laughed because otherwise I would have wept like a fool, and Mum was already confused enough.
Who left? Mum asked from the hallway, with that sharp clarity that sometimes struck her like a flash of lightning.
Ethel.
The one with the long hair?
Yes, Mum.
Ah, she shrugged. She never liked me. She was always watching the clock.
And that was it my whole world summed up in a single line from a woman who couldnt recall her breakfast but remembered every tiny slight Ethel had ever dealt me.
The first months were a blur of adult diapers, halfeaten dishes and nights when Mum insisted I was her longlost brother from 1987.
James, why didnt you come to my funeral? one evening a neighbour asked.
Because I was busy being dead, Mum.
She scowled.
Youve always been irresponsible.
My friends called me with the tone reserved for a funeral.
Howre you, mate?
Great. Mum thinks Im her dead brother, and my wife left because I chose changing diapers over couples therapy. Dream life, isnt it?
Did you try to talk to Ethel?
Yes. She told me to come to her when Im ready to be her husband, not just my mums son. Poetic, right? Or just devastating. I cant tell anymore.
One night Mum had a flash of clarity. While I was giving her medication she looked at me and said,
You drove her away, didnt you? Your wife.
My throat tightened.
I didnt drive her away, Mum. I just did what I thought was right.
And what was that? Sacrificing your life for someone who half the time doesnt even remember your name?
Mum
Im not stupid, James. Not yet. Her eyes welled up. I changed your diapers when you were a baby. Its only fair you change mine now. But its not fair if it costs you everything.
You gave me everything.
And thats why you must have something to give back. She squeezed my hand with unexpected strength. Dont use me as an excuse not to live.
Thirty seconds later she didnt recognise me and asked if Id seen her son, James a nice lad, a bit scattered.
Ill look for him, maam, I replied. Ill tell him his mother is waiting.
Dont let him be late, she warned. Im starting to forget Im waiting for him.
Eight months passed. Ethel never returned. Mums memory faded more each day. I kept drifting in that limbo between filial duty and romantic love, wondering whether they were really different at all, just dressed in other coats.
Last night I found a photo from our wedding. Ethel beamed, I was lovestruck, Mum wept in the front row because her baby had grown up to be a man.
I showed Mum the picture.
Who are those? she asked.
People who loved each other a lot.
And they dont love each other now?
I dont know, Mum. I think they loved so much they had to let go.
She nodded, as if she understood, though she was probably already forgetting the question.
Love hurts, she said suddenly.
Yes, Mum. It hurts terribly.
Then its real.
For the first time in months I smiled genuinely. It felt right. The sharp pain, the guilt, the loss, the impossible choice everything hurt so fiercely it could only be love.
Love for Mum, who gave me life.
Love for Ethel, who tried to give it meaning.
And perhaps, someday, enough love for myself to realise that choosing one path doesnt mean the others were wrong.
It just means this was my path.
For now, as I make Mum a cup of tea and delete unsent messages to Ethel, I cling to that.
To the pain.
Because its the only proof Im still alive.
And that once, somewhere, I was loved by two amazing women who deserved more than I could ever give.
James? Mums voice floated from the lounge.
Yes, Mum. Im here.
Who are you?
Someone who loves you very much.
How lovely, she smiled. How lovely to have someone.
And as I hand her the tea, I think Ethel was right.
But Mum was right too.
And I, somewhere in the middle, am still trying to work out the right answer to a question that never really had one.
What would you have done in my shoes?
