I still remember the exact day Poppy slammed her suitcase shut. It didnt shake me; it simply made everything a bit easier to swallow. She closed it with the same delicate precision she used for everythingeven when she was tearing me apart.
Did you grab the toothbrush? I asked from the doorway of our bedroom.
She looked at me as if Id just asked what time it was while the Titanic was sinking.
Really, Thomas? Thats all youve got to say?
I dont know what else to say.
And that was the truth. By the third month every conversation ended the same way: in the narrow lane that lay between my mums house and our marriage. It felt as if love were a cake that could only be cut in one particular way.
My mum called me a busybody yesterday, Poppy said, folding the blouse Id given her for our anniversary. For the fourth time this week.
She doesnt know what shes talking about. She has Alzheimers.
I know, Thomas. I know it well. But lately you dont seem to know what youre saying either. Or what you feel. Or where my mum ends and I begin.
I sat on the bedon the side that had grown cold, even though she was still sleeping there.
This is my mum, Poppy.
And Im your wife. Or I was. Im not even sure anymore.
From the lounge Mum shouted something about thieves stealing her youth, probably still admiring her reflection in the mirror.
I have to
Go, Poppy said, her voice so weary it hurt my bones. You always have to go.
When I returned, after twenty minutes spent soothing Mum with biscuits and a photo from her younger days, Poppy 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. Take care. Look after her.
I laughed. I laughed because otherwise I would have wept like a fool, and Mum was already thoroughly confused.
Who left? Mum asked from the hallway, with that sharp clarity that sometimes struck her like lightning.
Poppy.
The one with the long hair?
Yes, Mum.
Ah, she said, shrugging. She never liked me. Always watching the clock.
And there it wasmy whole world summed up in a single line from a woman who could not remember what shed had for breakfast, yet could recall every slight Poppy had ever inflicted.
The first months were a blur of adult diapers, halfeaten plates, and nights when Mum insisted I was her longlost brother from 1987.
Tom, why didnt you come to my funeral? she asked one evening.
Because I was busy being dead, Mum.
She frowned. Youve always been irresponsible.
Friends called me in that tone you hear at a funeral.
How are you, mate?
Great. Mum thinks Im her dead brother, and my wife left because I chose changing diapers over couples therapy. Dream life, right?
Did you try talking to Poppy?
Yes. She told me to come looking for her when I was ready to be her husband, not just my mums son. Poetic, isnt it? Or devastating. I cant tell the difference.
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 cant even remember your name?
Mum
Im not stupid, Thomas. Not yet. Her eyes welled. 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 forward. 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, Thomashandsome but a bit scattered.
Ill look for him, maam, I replied. Ill tell him his mothers waiting.
Dont let him be late, she said. Im beginning to forget Im waiting.
Eight months passed. Poppy never returned. Mums memory kept slipping. I remained stuck in that limbo between filial duty and romantic love, wondering whether they werent the same thing dressed in different clothes.
Last night I found a photo from our wedding. Poppy beamed, I was smiling, and Mum sat in the front row, tears streaming because her baby had become a man.
I showed the picture to Mum.
Who are they? 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 might have already forgotten the question.
Love hurts, she said suddenly.
Yes, Mum. It hurts terribly.
Then its real.
For the first time in months I truly smiled. She was right. That sharp pain, that guilt, that loss, that impossible decisionall of it hurt so fiercely it could only be love.
Love for Mum, who gave me life.
Love for Poppy, 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 simply means this was my path.
For now, as I brew Mums tea and delete the unsent messages to Poppy, I cling to that pain. Its the only proof that Im still alive, that once I was loved by two extraordinary women who deserved more than I could ever give.
Mum? a voice called 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 Poppy was right. And so was Mum. And somewhere in the middle Im still trying to work out the answer to a question that never really had one.
The lesson Ive learned is that loves ache is not a punishment but a reminder that we have truly lived.
