Your Daughter

You tell me that she was a breech-birth. I’d always thought that was worse but you say it was easier that way; didn’t hurt as much as the first time, when your Son was born.

She is two & a half years old.

She’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, & I used to fucking detest the word “adorable”, especially if it was ever used to describe me.

When I tell you this, it makes you laugh:

“You’re not adorable! Sweet, maybe, but only sometimes, & sweet like liquorice: a weird, acquired taste”.

We’ve stayed awake far too late tonight, drinking red wine & talking about our lives.

I once believed we were defined entirely by the roles we play in a stupid fucking game, & that neither the rules nor the roles could ever change but

when you leave me, briefly, to check on the children, I realise that I was wrong:

You’ve changed me completely:

I don’t believe that this is a game any more; now, I see it as a dream waiting

to be realised.