It’s my birthday when I realise. Standing at the sink, wrist deep in washing up water, hands pink from the heat.
He doesn’t love me anymore.
It’s not just a thought, it’s the knowledge of it, a feeling in my chest as if I’ve my lungs are sinking to my stomach, my heart deflating, turning wrinkled and soggy like a week old balloon.
‘You putting the kettle on?’ he calls from the front room, TV blasting the theme tune to one of the American murder mysteries he likes, the sort of show where the worst of life’s trauma’s is solved in an hour.
I click the switch on the kettle, rinse out two mugs, dry my hands on the tea towel.
‘Just making it now,’ I say.
I crouch by the washing machine, tugging shirts free from the knot of linen. I put the iron on and wait for the kettle to boil.