Bottled Out
We were in the kitchen in France and my husband had gone down to the cellar to get the cakes out of the fridge; only he had really gone down to secretly drink out of the wine bottle he had hidden in an old computer case.
My middle son had dashed down to help with carrying the cakes and so he saw. Of course my husband denied he had been drinking and something inside me just went a dull 'dud'. I think it was seeing the look in my son's eyes when his father lied so blatantly in front of him, completely betraying his knowledge that his son had seen him. I said 'Please go, I cannot go on any more'. We got a suitcase and put his night clothes in and he left; in silence.
Since then, and ironically it was 4th July, Independence Day, the boys and I have breathed again, laughed again, cried some but not overly, and come home.
We have rejoiced at Scottish plain loaves, wet pavements, heather hills, schools that finish early, Morton’s rolls, and learnt that every darkest night has a dawn. My husband too is back and dry and working.
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