I remember the exact day Emily slammed her suitcase shut. It doesnt shake me now; it just makes the whole thing easier to swallow. She closes it with that delicate precision she uses for everythingeven when shes tearing me apart.
Did you take the toothbrush? I ask from the bedroom doorway.
She looks at me as if Id just asked what time it was while the Titanic was sinking.
Really, Ian? Thats all youre going to say?
I dont know what else to say.
And thats the truth. For three months now every conversation ends the same way: on that cramped street between my mothers flat and our marriage. It feels as if love were a cake that can only be sliced in one particular direction.
My mum called me a meddler yesterday, Emily says, folding the shirt I gave her for our anniversary. For the fourth time this week.
She doesnt know what shes talking about. She has Alzheimers.
I know, Ian. I know it well. But lately you dont seem to know what youre saying, what youre feeling, where your mother ends and I begin.
I sit on the bedon her side, which is already cold even though shes still asleep.
This is my mother, Lily, I say.
And Im your wife. Or I was. Im not even sure anymore.
Mum shouts from the lounge about thieves who stole her youth, probably still watching her reflection in the mirror.
You have to
Go, Emily replies, her voice so weary it aches my bones. You always have to go.
When I return after twenty minutes, having soothed Mum with biscuits and a photo from her younger days, Emily is gone. On the pillow lies 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 laugh, because otherwise Id burst into tears like a fool, and Mum is already confused enough.
Who left? Mum asks from the hallway, her harsh clarity striking like a flash of lightning.
Emily.
The one with the long hair?
Yes, Mum.
Right, she shrugs. She never liked me. She was always watching the clock.
And there it ismy whole world summed up in a line from a woman who cant recall her breakfast but remembers every slight Emily ever gave her.
The first months blur into adult diapers, halfeaten plates and nights when Mum insists Im her lost brother from 1987.
Rory, why didnt you come to my funeral? she asks one evening.
Because I was busy being dead, Mum.
She frowns.
Youve always been irresponsible.
Friends call me with the tone used at a funeral.
Hows it going, mate?
Brilliant. Mum thinks Im her dead brother, and my wife left because Id rather change diapers than go to couples therapy. Dream life, huh?
Did you try talking to Emily?
Yes. She told me to look for her when Im ready to be her husband, not just my mothers son. Poetic, right? Or just a mess. I cant tell anymore.
One night Mum has a flash of clarity. While I give her medication, she looks at me and says,
You drove her away, didnt you? Youre a husband.
My throat tightens.
I didnt drive her away, Mum. I just did what I thought was right.
What was right? Ruining your life for someone who cant even remember your name half the time?
Mum
Im not stupid, Ian. Not yet. Tears well up in her eyes. I changed your diapers when you were a baby. Its fair you change mine now. But its not fair if it costs you everything.
You gave me everything.
And thats why you need something to give back. She squeezes my hand with unexpected strength. Dont use me as an excuse not to live.
Thirty seconds later she doesnt recognize me and asks if Ive seen her son Iana nice lad, a bit scattered.
Ill look for him, maam, I answer. Ill tell him his mothers waiting.
Dont let him be late, she says. Im starting to forget Im waiting.
Eight months pass. Emily never returns. Mum forgets more each day, and I keep drifting in that limbo between filial love and romantic love, wondering if theyre really different at all, just wearing different coats.
Last night I find a photo from our wedding. Emily beams, I look headoverheels in love, Mum weeps in the front row because her babys grown into a man. I show Mum the picture.
Who are these? she asks.
People who loved each other a lot.
They dont love each other now?
I dont know, Mum. I think they loved so much they had to let go.
She nods, as if she understands, though shes probably already forgotten the question.
Love hurts, she says suddenly.
Yes, Mum. It hurts terribly.
Then its real.
For the first time in months I smile genuinely. It feels right. That sharp pain, that guilt, that impossible choiceall of it hurts so deeply it could only be love.
Love for Mum, who gave me life.
Love for Emily, who tried to give it meaning.
And maybe, 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 brew Mums tea and delete unsent messages to Emily, I cling to that.
To the pain, because its the only proof Im still alive.
And that once, somewhere, I was loved by two remarkable women who deserved more than I could ever give.
Ian? Mums voice calls from the lounge.
Yes, Mum. Im here.
Who are you?
Someone who loves you very much.
How lovely, she smiles. How lovely to have someone.
As I hand her the tea, I think Emily was right.
But Mum was right too.
And somewhere in the middle, Im still trying to work out the answer to a equation that never had a solution.
What would you do if you were in Ians shoes?
