[insert title]

Misty muted morning,
coffee, marmite, toast
fluttered eyelash, dvd,
cuddle me in close.

Chilly, counting starlight,
sleeves tucked over palm,
interlocking fingertips,
epitome of calm.

Iced americano,
limerence within
sparkle summer raindrops,
petrichor and skin.

Weave together daydreams,
bubblegum-laced skies,
stolen secret glances
of nebula-kissed eyes.

Dancing sun-drenched silhouette,
golden hour glow,
My sweet creature, pinky promise,
never let me go.

Saving Sunsets

Charcoal embers,
salt on olive skin,
cardigans laid on pebbles,
ice cream, melted,
and him.

Sacrificial photographs,
of golden hour sea,
of a thousand fluttering starlings,
a pebble-skimming silhouette
watching me.

I’ll always notice the bubbles
of the waves on the water’s edge,
the sunshine heat dancing
across freckle-prickled limbs,
tasting salt of the ocean air,
breathing in.

I’ll always be nineteen
saving sunsets
with him.

The Arts

I could tell you
of kind touches,
of tranquil mornings
or wine-soaked sleepless nights.

I could paint you a picture,
of sunsets
or starlight
or cobblestones in the moonlight.

I could sing you songs,
of destiny,
or memories,
or overly-whimsical fantasies.

Or, I could write you a poem,
but I fear
that words
would fail me.

No, I didn’t make a mistake. The title of the first poem is indeed [insert title], but that was intentional. It’s is a piece that I hold very close to my heart, and is probably the most important piece I’ve ever written - because it’s for my husband.

‘Ewww’…

Yeah, I hear you. Don’t worry - I’m not about to get all soppy, I just thought I’d explain.

When I first wrote the poem, I had absolutely no idea what to call it. I like simple titles, and don’t really like using words already used in the poem itself (unless it’s saving sunsets, in which case, I had to - the phrase was the driving force of the entire piece. What a hypocrite). But, every time I replaced [insert title] with a different title, it just…it didn’t do enough. Nothing was powerful enough, nothing conveyed exactly what I was trying to communicate. It was like the right word was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t find it.

Because no word is good enough, on its own, to say what I needed to say.

And I think leaving space for that word, if it were to ever exist, is actually better.

Fancy a little bit more?

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I set my pencil case on the upper right corner of my desk, placing a black ballpoint pen and a graphite HB pencil next to it. I fiddle with the end of my tie, cradling it as it sits in my lap. My feet cross instinctively under the chair, the leather squeaking together enough to cause a vibration I can feel, but not so much that it makes a sound.

Breathe. You are safe. This is normal.

Tables around me fill - alphabetically, as they are supposed to. A boy from my science class sits two desks forward, to the left of me. His cheap aftershave burns my nose, even from here. Tick. Tick. Tick. The silence amplifies the sound of someone’s watch, although I can’t place exactly where it’s coming from. Someone else clicks their pen, fidgeting. The examiner’s approaching footsteps draw my attention backward.

And I can feel every pair of eyes on the back of my head. Watching.

Not really. Focussed. Working. I remind myself over and over. I need to shut out the distractions.

Focus.

How can I?

I place my handbag by the door, slipping of my shoes and placing them neatly beside it. I fiddle with the buttons on my shirt, and follow my husband into the living room. Familiar faces, and one new.

Smile. Hello. Nice to meet you. Eye contact. Smile.

This is normal.

Drinks are offered, people engage in pleasant small talk as they sip. A timer rings somewhere in the kitchen, followed by swift movement, then wafts of garlic and cheese. The radio plays through the television, generic pop interspersed with pointless chatter.

It’s weird that I’m so quiet.

Not really. Conversation is happening. I contributed. But I need to shut out the distractions.

Focus.

How can I?

Rustles of paper, ticking of a clock. Everyone melts, and I write.

And write.

And think.

And calculate.

And write.

I disappear.

And I’m done. Early. Something’s not right. Check everything. I do, and everything is in its place, everything looks exactly as it should. I check again.

And then I sit. I listen to the scribbles, to the tapping, to the sighs and the breaths and the rain on the roof of the gymnasium. Tick. Tick. Tick. And I check my paper again.

The sounds and the stress fuel each other, until it’s too much. You can’t go. People will see you. I contemplate raising my hand. I think of any excuse I could make that could help me to leave early. I need the toilet. I need some air. I feel sick. That’s the one.

Because what else am I supposed to say?

Clinking of glasses, scraping of knives. Everyone chats, and I eat.

I slice.

I eat.

I sip wine.

I pass a napkin.

And I’m done. And it doesn’t feel right. Should I eat more? Would people notice? I help myself to another slice of garlic bread from the bowl in the centre of the table. I pick at it, slowly.

I haven’t spoken to her since we arrived. She probably thinks I’m cold, not interested, stuck up. I can smell her vanilla perfume from across the table. I hear her bracelet clink against her plate each time she portions her next bite.

Plates are cleared, table emptied, only we remain seated. Her eyes catch mine, and I look away. Quick! Look back. Smile. And I do. Say something. But I can’t. I think of anything I could possibly say, a question I could ask. Nothing.

I think of any excuse I could make for why I’m so quiet. Gosh, isn’t it warm? I am so tired.

Because what else am I supposed to say?

That I’m autistic?

I was diagnosed with Autism (and ADHD) age 27, last year. I’ve spent the last five years researching, learning, understanding the conditions - and myself - as much as I possibly can. When you’re handed information that finally helps you to make sense of who you are, it is life changing.

But the biggest thing, which I didn’t see coming at all, was being faced with a significant amount of internalised ableism. In my case, masking became a form of self-directed internalised ableism: I had internalised the expectation that autistic ways of behaving were unacceptable or needed to be concealed, so I directed that expectation back at myself.

I was happy to be diagnosed - relieved, even. I accepted the diagnosis fully, embraced it, owned it. Epiphany after epiphany of Oh! That’s why I do that! Everything makes so much sense!

And yet, when it came to telling others, all I felt was shame.

I’m Autistic wasn’t something I could say proudly.

I looked for excuses for my own behaviour, forced myself to mask until it became too much and I sought escape. Anything that meant I didn’t have to tell people. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want them to know. It was because I was afraid of how they might react. Afraid that they might not accept it like I did. Scared that they might feel awkward and not know what to say.

Because the last thing I wanted to do was create an awkward social situation, when I’m the one desperately trying to make every social interaction I have as seamless and natural as possible. Like I’m supposed to.

So, hi. I’m Georgia. I am autistic. Sometimes I am a lot. Sometimes I am overwhelmed. Sometimes I am quiet. Sometimes I need to leave. Sometimes I don’t know what to say.

None of those things need an excuse.

And hopefully, eventually, I won’t need one either.

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I slip my feet into the black sandals which sit by the door to the patio. I step outside - shady, slightly overcast. The wind carries a chill, but it’s not cold.

I could make a coffee, maybe bring it outside…or I could write…

I don’t really know what I want.

I cross the lawn, yellowed from the drought, to the vegetable patch. Cucumbers stalled, spinach bolted, onions lagging. Everything on pause.

A bumblebee buzzes past my ear on my right side, settling into a slightly wilted cucumber blossom. He feeds, pollen dusting along his back. As quickly as I notice him, he is gone, heading for the tomatoes. I follow.

I should have brought a coffee…I could sit out here…maybe I’ll need to go back for a cardigan...why is nothing growing?

The sun emerges from behind a cloud, warming the skin on my shoulders. I kneel. As I lift a vine to inspect it, a blush of orange peeks through the foliage. I look deeper, as more and more flecks of colour reveal themselves. Subtle, yes, but a gentle relief - a reminder that among the still, life grows.

That she continues to evolve regardless of circumstance.

I wrote this short piece this morning, reflecting on the similarities I share with my own garden.

I am at a point in my life where I am blessed with the opportunity to slow down - the life of a stay at home mother is busy, of course, but the nap times and post-bedtime moments are quiet. They present opportunities for self-reflection, and for decision making. How do I want to spend my time today? How should I spend my time today?

I am not sure who I am, or who I want to be. Within the vastness of opportunity, I stand at an indefinite crossroad.

Life feels as though it is on pause.

And yet, I grow.

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He hasn’t looked at me in forty minutes.

Distracted. Focussed. Tired, probably.

The feminist in me - the one who built a fortress out of theory, who knows that the desire for male validation is a beautifully wrapped cage - stands guard at the gate. She tells me my worth is a solid thing. It does not require the mirror of a man’s gaze to exist.

So why is this silence burning?

A neurological trapdoor. A quiet glitch of a brain that treats an absence of praise as a physical drop in temperature. Intellectually, I am a radical independent. Neurologically, I am a shivering animal, begging to be patted on the head so that its pulse will slow.

Lean into him. Make your presence known. Force him to see you.

No. Pride pulls my spine straight. I refuse to perform the historic dance of the needy woman, manufacturing a moment just to beg for crumbs. I will not let my morals be humiliated by my own desperation.

It’s an internal and eternal civil war. Rejection of the patriarchy for starvation of the self. Pretending I’m made of marble when my wiring is made of raw, exposed nerves.

Do you see that I curled my hair differently, that I chose the dress that sits just right on my shoulders?

For you.

No. For me. The ritual has never needed an audience. I like feeling beautiful in the privacy of my own reflection. Don't I? The desire to be beautiful and the desire to be desired are infinitely tangled.

But the human body is politically illiterate. It has never read a page of feminist theory. It does not care how many texts are underlined or how eloquently one can dismantle the male gaze. It speaks an older language which mistranslates attention as safety, silence as abandonment.

Tell me you see me.
That I have not faded into the furniture.

That’s it, isn’t it?
I don’t want to be admired, or worshipped, or complimented.

I want to be seen. To be witnessed. To know that I still exist vividly enough in someone else's world to be noticed, without asking.

Look at me.
Just once.

Tell me I’m pretty.

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Author’s Note:

Part of me feels a deep satisfaction in bringing this story to a close - but that’s only a small part of me. The rest feels as though she is in mourning of two people who have come to feel somewhat…real? Mabel and Henry have had a hold of my heart for a long while now, and to say goodbye to them is incredibly strange.

Still, there’s more to come soon - I’m currently working on the plans for the next part of this story, which I am so excited to tell you about! It’s called Until Tomorrow and we’ll be taking a peek inside Henry’s Diary, specifically the pages he kept during the duration of the WMGW timeline!

To each of you who has followed alongside this story - each comment rooting for Mabel and Henry, or sharing simply how much you have enjoyed reading, means more than I can explain. I am endlessly grateful for you all! Gosh, I better stop, I’m actually getting emotional.

So here it is - the final chapter.

See you soon!

Dear Henry,

I have not yet received your reply to my last letter, though what I must now say cannot wait upon it. Since writing to you, I have changed my mind, and I am sorry to tell you that our correspondence must come to an end. I know myself best when I write to you – and it is for that very reason that I cannot continue.

There are, I find, two ways in which I exist. There is Mab, the girl you have been writing to, who delights in the small occurrences of the day, who attends to you through illness and unease, and whom you patiently instruct in matters of gardening. She takes pleasure in the habit of writing, in the turn of your sentences, and in the simple anticipation of having something, however trifling, to tell you. She is the girl whose hand you held when we were scarcely more than children, when the storm grew so violent that neither of us could be certain who first reached for the other. Mab is the girl you knew. Your companion, your closest friend.

But there is also Mabel. Mabel Harrington. She is a wife, and soon she will be a mother, and she must learn to stand firmly within those duties. She cannot look elsewhere for the steadiness that ought to be found at home. What sort of woman would she be, then? One who allows her thoughts to settle more readily upon another voice than upon her husband’s? One who listens for the post with greater attention than for the turning of the key? One who confides her deepest worries in a man who exists only upon the ink and paper at her fingertips?

I must choose between these selves. They cannot be lived side by side, nor divided neatly between the hours. It is not possible to remain who I once was while becoming who I am required to be. Mab would have lingered, Henry. She would have asked after your morning, your garden, the light upon your windows. She would have drawn the hours out willingly, as she always did. But Mabel Harrington must now be more circumspect, and the time I once spent within your letters must be given over, however reluctantly, to other claims.

Do not suppose that this decision has been made without struggle. I have turned it over again and again, in the quietest corners of my days, while setting things to rights, while preparing for the morrow, while lying awake beside a man who places his trust in me without question. I have grown used to measuring time by your letters, and I shall feel their absence keenly. There will be moments, small and unremarkable ones, when I think of you without intending to, and must remind myself that not every thought is meant to be answered, nor every inclination indulged.

I have tried, in all that I have written, to avoid saying one thing plainly, as though silence might make it untrue, or at least less dangerous. But I find I cannot leave it so, not if this is to be the last time I write to you. I love you, Henry, deeply. I do not say it lightly, nor in some passing or fanciful way, but with true certainty. It has settled itself into me so naturally that I wonder if it has simply always been that way. But I know that it must not be allowed to remain.

I begin to see, too, that I have not been fair in this. Not to Arthur, nor even to myself. There is only so much of a person that may be given in earnest, and I think I have divided it poorly. What I have withheld from him – my attention, my patience, my full presence – I cannot help but wonder if I have, in some way, given over to you instead. It is not something I ever intended, nor something I can entirely account for, but I see it now all the same.

I do not believe I am made to love in halves. I think I must give myself wholly, or not at all, and having made my choice once, I cannot now unmake it without consequence. Whatever I feel, however it has come about, does not alter the fact that I am Arthur’s wife. That was the moment of choosing, whether I understood it fully or not, and it must stand.

I can imagine you urging me to be less severe with myself, to bring more of Mab into my marriage, and not to treat this as a matter of such gravity. You would tell me that gentleness, curiosity, and feeling need not be set aside altogether. And yet there will be a place beside my armchair where your letters once lay, Henry, a place that will feel oddly bare each morning – and it must remain so. I will still notice the small details I once saved for you, and I will have to let them pass unspoken.

My mind is settled. It would be impossible for this to continue without guilt. I have already been hiding our letters, my writing things and the notes I keep through the week, from Arthur. For what reason should I hide those, if not for guilt? That simple fact tells me more about our entire relationship than what is contained within our correspondence.

Before Arthur returned home, I burned every one of your letters. Their ashes still lie beneath the grate as I write this, and I cannot bring myself to sweep them away. It is the cruellest thing I have ever done, and worse still to know that, when this letter reaches you, I shall be asking you to grieve something you never chose to lose. Had I loved you less, Henry, I think I might have found it easier.

I wish you every good fortune – with your work, with the life you will yet build, with the family I believe you will one day be blessed with. Any woman would be awfully lucky to have you, but I hope that you do not choose just any woman. You deserve all the world, Henry. I would hate to think that I had kept you, even unknowingly, from a happiness that might have been yours. The fault is all mine. I wrote first. I allowed myself to look backward, and in doing so I stirred something that was once harmless, and is so no longer.

It will be painfully difficult, but I shall not hear from you again, Henry – not in letters, nor in any other small and passing way.

If you think of me after this, I hope it is with kindness – not as I am now, but as I once was. As the girl who laughed beside you, who trusted you without knowing she did so, and who belonged to that time as you did. That version of me must now be laid gently to rest.

With most gentle wishes,
Always,
Mabel Harrington

A burning fire may warm the house,
but to play with its embers may yet undo it.

Read the entire story from the beginning:

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Author’s Note:

And so, to those of you still here, still reading, still hoping Mabel and Henry reach a positive resolve - the penultimate chapter! Enjoy!

Dear Henry,

Your last letter has done me more good than I quite know how to account for. I must thank you dearly, for the steadiness with which you write – I find I lean upon it without meaning to, and I am very much grateful to you for it, though I suspect I have said as much in too many different ways already.

You will be relieved to hear that I told Arthur this morning, though I cannot say it went in any way I had imagined. He was not overjoyed, nor was he displeased, which I think I might have preferred, if only to have something certain to hold onto. Instead, he received it in such a manner that I hardly know how to describe it. It was almost as though I had told him what we might have for supper, and it happened to be something he did not object to, but would not have chosen for himself.

He said very little, only nodded, and went on much as before. I found myself waiting, quite foolishly, for something more, for a question or even a remark, but none came. It was as if I had spoken of something small and passing, like the weather or the post.

I do not quite know what to make of it, and I think it is that uncertainty which unsettles me most. It leaves me with nothing to answer, and nowhere for my feelings to go, which is a very strange loneliness indeed.

You tell me that you are not going anywhere, and that I may write as I have done, and I believe you. That, perhaps, is part of what makes all of this so difficult.

I have been thinking, more seriously than I have done before, about how I have come to be as I am. It is not a comfortable exercise. I begin to see that I have made a habit of retreating from things rather than meeting them. When something presses too closely, I turn elsewhere – a romantic novel, one of your letters, or even some small occupation simply to fill the time until the feeling passes. I had thought it harmless, even sensible, but I am no longer so certain. I believe I have been living more in these small escapes than in my own life.

It is not only with you, though you are the most obvious instance of it, and I think that is what troubles me most. I see it in my days here. There are things left undone which ought not to be, and I cannot pretend not to notice them any longer. The house is not kept as it should be, though I have more than enough time to see to it. I begin tasks and do not finish them. I let things go, telling myself I shall return to them, and then I do not. It is a sort of carelessness I would once have thought beneath me.

And with Arthur – though I hardly know how to write of that without seeming unkind – I think I have been less present than I ought to be. I have found it much more simple to turn inward, or elsewhere, than to sit in a room where so little is said. Truthfully, I do not know when that began, only that I see it now. You must not think I place this at your feet. I do not. If anything, you have only made it visible to me.

Still, I cannot ignore that I have come to depend upon our letters in a way that is not altogether right. I wait for them. I turn things over in my mind with the thought of how I might set them before you. I make small notes throughout the day so that I will not forget a single thing I wished to tell you, as though it would matter less if it were not shared with you in particular. It has grown into something more than a habit, I think, though I scarcely know what else to call it. And yet I cannot simply give it up. I do not wish to. That is the plain truth of it, however poorly it reflects upon me.

So I find myself in a most inconvenient position of wanting two things which do not sit easily together. I would not lose this, and yet I cannot go on in quite the same way without feeling that I am neglecting something nearer to me, something that ought to take precedence.

You have been very generous to me, more so than I have perhaps deserved. But it is not only your advice, nor even your kindness, though both are considerable. It is that I find myself thinking of you in the midst of ordinary things, and wishing, without quite meaning to, that you might be here to share it. I do not think that is a habit I can safely encourage in myself.

And it is for that reason, more than any other, that I must try to be more careful in how I make use of our letters. If our correspondence is to continue, Henry, we ought to come to some sort of agreement that we remain discussing only certain topics.

With most gentle wishes,
Mab

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Author’s Note:

Writing as Mabel has been one of the most joyous yet heartbreaking things I have ever done. Discovering her voice, planning her story, deciding her fate - it’s all cemented just how much writing means to me. Through Mabel’s story, I’ve been able to share a lot of myself - that’s not to say her story is my story at all, just that, as individuals, I suppose we are quite similar.

As we begin to bring this story to a close, I thank you for allowing me to share every part of Mabel, and myself, with you.

Dear Henry,

I hardly know how to answer you, which is a foolish way to begin a letter when answering you is all I seem able to think of just now. I have read what you wrote again and again, and each time I feel myself settle, and then stir up again all at once, which is no great help at all.

You say things as they are, I think. You wrote that ‘it is no kindness to call something a blessing when it is the woman who must bear the whole of it’, and that the world is very quick to praise her for it after, but not much before. And that a man may go in and out of such matters as suits him and still be thought good, while a woman has no such freedom once it begins. I do not know that I had ever seen it set down so plainly. I had not expected that from you. I thought, perhaps, you would try to make it smaller, or easier, or tell me not to think of it so much. Instead you only said it as it is, which I find I cannot quite decide if I thank you for or not.

I know that I must tell Arthur, I do not dispute you there. I think of it at breakfast, and then decide it would spoil the day. I think of it in the evening, and then he is tired, or occupied, or already half elsewhere in his thoughts, and I cannot bring myself to force such a thing upon him. And so it remains with me, growing no lighter for being carried, though I cannot imagine that it will remain a possibility to hide it for much longer at all.

What I am afraid of, though I am ashamed to put it so, is that once it is said, everything will be different at once, and I shall be expected to move along with it, to arrange myself accordingly, as though I had been preparing all along. There will be no pause in it, no time to slip away to reread your letters for stability nor to write to you of my worries. I find I depend upon these letters, or perhaps on you, more than I ought to. There is no one here to whom I may speak as I do to you. Not my sister, who would only tell me to be grateful, nor any neighbour, who would think me odd at best and hysterical at worst. Here, at least, I may set things down as they are when they come to me, without having to smooth them first. I am forever grateful for that, Henry.

It is not only that I may speak freely to you, it is that when I read what you write, it feels as though I am seen, truly, as though the thought had been half mine already, and you have only finished it. We were always so, were we not? Even before - when we were smaller, and nearer - I did not think to question it. I cannot remember a time when we were not of the same mind, even when we disagreed.

I know you, Henry. You will say that I may continue to write, and perhaps you are right in that, but I cannot help thinking how quickly such things are put aside when there is a child to be tended. I have seen it often enough.

When I left Whattley, I told myself I was only going a little way despite how far it felt. I thought I should grow used to it quickly, and in most ways I have. But there are parts of me that did not come with me, or did not know how to, and I have felt that absence more keenly at times than I have ever admitted. Writing to you has made that plain in a way I had not intended.

I know there is a danger in it. I am not so foolish as to think otherwise. And yet I go on writing, and I wait for your letters with more impatience than is reasonable, and I cannot seem to correct myself in it.

You must not stop writing to me, Henry. I do not think I could go back to what it was before. I do not think I could bear it, Henry, to lose you all over again.

With most gentle wishes,
Mab

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We’re not the kids
we used to be.
The thumbprint
in black ink
pressed into the parchment
of my handmade journal
still matches,
I’m sure,
but I hope,
for your sake,
the soul who left it behind
is gone.

“we’re not the kids we used to be” is a line from a recent piece by (if you’re not subscribed, this is your sign - the man is a genius) and for some reason, this small quote stuck with me. It wasn’t even a stand-alone quote, it was part of a larger sentence and point altogether.

But I simply couldn’t shake it.

The Sisyphus Club

They moved on, and so should you

I haven’t seen him in over five years now…

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3 months ago · 47 likes · 26 comments · Aaron

Aaron’s words transported me to a specific place, to being sixteen, standing at a bus stop waiting for the boy I’d been talking to all summer long. I was rummaging through a packet of Haribo Starmix, picking all of my favourite flavours out and leaving behind the fried eggs and cola bottles - and I’d give those to him later. My wired headphones played One Direction - Slow Songs Playlist on shuffle, the only way I knew to calm my nerves.

She was sweet. Naive. She didn’t know the boy she was waiting for didn’t value her the way she did him.

It really got me thinking about how much we change, how much I have changed in the last ten years. And how, weirdly, I wonder if he has, too. Because it would be sad, wouldn’t it, if people we once knew never grew beyond their younger selves?

I didn’t know then, that his confidence in his own opinions or reluctance to change anything was not from certainty, but from arrogance. I didn’t know that his seemingly enlightened view of the world was not from intelligence, but from regurgitation. I didn’t know that his perception of my value was not from a place of admiration, but from the ways in which I served him. I would like to think he has changed since then.

But then I realised that it all felt like a massive contradiction: hoping he had changed, while also wanting to believe I hadn’t needed to change very much myself. The problem was that I was confusing two different kinds of change entirely - becoming someone else, and becoming more myself.

Looking back, I think some people preferred the version of me they could predict. Every time I grew, I seemed to surprise someone - the more certain I became of myself, the less comfortably I fit into some people’s expectations. Some of the changes I made were never really mine; they were adaptations, performed in the hope of being easier to love.

I am glad that I was able to experience true naiveté, to live, if only for a short while, as though I was invincible. To love unashamedly. To be loud and passionate and clumsy. To make mistakes, and hurt people, and hurt myself. Because all of that meant that I was me - even if people tried to alter it.

But it also meant that I learned. I learned that all of the things that made me me deserved to be seen and loved by others. That I was allowed to be loud and passionate and clumsy and to love unashamedly.

But before anyone else could love those parts of me, I had to stop treating them as flaws.

Maybe the goal was never to become someone else. Maybe the goal was to stop believing that who I already was needed fixing.

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Author’s Note:

For those of you still reading, a) thank you, a ridiculously massive thank you, for sticking with this, and b) I am afraid I must let you know that, including this letter, there are only four remaining chapters! The last one will be Chapter 24 - and yes, I am as annoyed as you are that I could not make it a nice satisfying 25. I tried!

Dear Henry,

Your last letter was kinder than I deserved, after the tone of mine, and I thank you for it. I see now that you meant only to protect me, and I will not pretend I am ungrateful for your gentleness.

And yet, we do not feel the same on this matter. You write with such certainty of what is to come, as though this child were already a source of joy uncomplicated by anything else. I wish I could take up your optimism and carry it as easily as you seem to. But I cannot.

You speak of when I shall tell Arthur, as though the question were merely one of timing. I find I am struggling more so with how I might tell him. How does one say such a thing? There is no small way to speak it, no gentle preface that lessens its weight. It is not like mentioning the weather, nor even some household matter. It is something that alters the whole shape of a life in the saying of it, and that I do not know how he will receive it unsettles me so.

You may think me unkind to even consider such a doubt, but you are not here, Henry. You do not see how late he keeps, nor how little he says when he is home. His work consumes him - it always has - but lately it feels as though there is nothing left over. I cannot help but wonder if this is what he wants, at all. Has he ever spoken of it, truly? And if he does not, if this is not a joy to him, but a burden, then what am I to do with that knowledge?

I think that you believe yourself very sincerely when you say I shall not be alone, but I cannot help feeling that I shall be, because I have seen it, Henry. I have seen it in my sister, in the women who live near us - the way the world gathers around in excitement of the arrival of a child, and yet leaves the mother to carry every responsibility of it almost entirely by herself. The father is praised, or excused, or simply absent, and the woman is expected to endure and to manage and to become something tireless and giving and entirely uncomplaining. It seems to me a most unfair arrangement, that something which requires two should rest so wholly upon one.

I do not say these things to wound you, nor to reject your kindness. Indeed, it is only because of your kindness that I can say them at all. There is no one else to whom I may speak so plainly. Here, at least, I may be something other than composed. I miss you dearly, Henry. I cannot help but wonder if we would have had such a falling out if this conversation had been held in person. I imagine only a fraction of frustration or resentment or misunderstanding would have been felt, and you would have been as quick to put things right as you were in your letter.

I will tell Arthur. I know that I must. But I find I am in no rush to step across that threshold, after which nothing may be unsaid.

You are all I have, Henry.

With most gentle wishes,
Mab

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Author’s Note:

I’ve always found it difficult to take advice, or even constructive criticisms, on board. No matter how kindly they are delivered, it never fails to feel like an attack. I’m somewhat ashamed to admit that I’ve put myself in some terrible situations because of the way I have reacted in these situations - and some of the consequences have been terminal.

I do hope Henry understands.

Oh, and do me a favour - imagine this chapter on creased, slightly torn paper, with ink blotches and scrawled handwriting, shoved into an envelope in a haphazard manner only possible by someone either in a rush, or entirely carelessly.

Dear Henry,

That you should focus upon only a single sentence from my last letter and twist it into something so ugly is offensive, and insupportable. You write of my husband as though you know him better than I, as though distance grants you some clearer sight, and in doing so you insult not only him, but me.

You accuse Arthur of betrayal with a certainty that astonishes me. Upon what do you build such a claim? Fragments of my letters? Passing remarks, written in fatigue? You take what was never meant as evidence and fashion from it a scandal. It is unjust, Henry - reckless and cruel.

And worse still, you speak as though I am some poor fool to be pitied or rescued. I am not naive. I am not blind. I do not require you to instruct me in the management of my own marriage. If there were anything amiss I should know it without your interference.

But even so, what choice do I have? I will tell you plainly: I have the choice to trust the man I married, and I intend to exercise it. I left everything behind in Whattley - my home, my family, my friends - and I did so willingly. I became Arthur’s wife, and that is not a role I will abandon because you have indulged in suspicion.

You write as though I might simply leave, as though a woman may step out of her life as easily as a man steps out of a room. You offer an “escape” from what I imagine you believe is kindness, but it is not at all, Henry - it is merely fantasy. It seems you have paid little thought to what accusing Arthur might cost me, nor do you seem to care.

And this talk of confronting him before I speak of the child - what would you have me do? Accuse my husband, without proof, of a vile betrayal? Demand he defend himself against nothing but your suspicion? You would have me poison my own home with distrust before I have even welcomed my own child into it.

As for your suggestion that I ought to “decide what to do with the baby,” I can scarcely believe you wrote it. This child is not a problem to be solved at your convenience. It is mine. It is already part of me, and I will not have it spoken of as though it were some burden to be weighed and discarded.

You have always presumed to advise me, Henry, but never before have you presumed so far. I begin to think you mistake your concern for authority.

Do not write to me again of Arthur in this manner. I will not hear it. If you cannot trust my judgment in my own affairs, then you would do better to remain silent on them - or altogether.

Regards,

Mabel

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Author’s Note:

Oh, reader. You’re in for a treat. You lucky things.

Dear Henry,

I thank you, sincerely, for your attempts at unpicking the threads of my mind, of your suggestions as to why my thoughts might have lingered on my theoretical loneliness. How curious it is, that someone so far away should know my thoughts so well – should give voice to them, even, before they have fully formed in my own mind. It makes the distance seem, at moments, almost insignificant.

Those strange, nameless feelings were not loneliness, nor were they nostalgia as you gently suggested. In fact, I must tell you that your attempts to understand the complex nature of my mind were entirely unnecessary. I had not explained to you the complexities of those feelings, how my mind kept replaying the sounds of the children squealing as they ran about after each other. You needn’t be concerned, for I now know precisely what all the fuss was about. I now can give name to the feelings I could not shake, and I know why they lingered at all. And that is because I am with child, Henry.

It is as though my mind knew before I did, that my body sent word to my mind before I might have discovered the news at all. I hadn’t even realised that my monthly courses were so delayed, what with Arthur working away and working on the garden and the endless other small things that have kept my mind busy as of late. By my calculations, we shall be expecting our little one to join us in the spring.

Arthur returned from his work in the city days ago, but I am yet to tell him. I simply cannot find the words, nor the right time, and the thought of saying it aloud fills me with panic. It is not as though he could suspect that I am withholding anything from him, though, as he has been incredibly busy, both with work and seeing to a minor leak at Mrs Whitcombe’s house that “needed a man’s hand”, apparently. It seems the woman requires an awful lot of help – why her own husband cannot provide that, I do not know.

Might this distance be precisely why I am hesitant to share the news with him? There was a time, not too long ago, that Arthur and I were inseparable, that I waited not a second before sharing something with him, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant it might have been. It is as though he has other priorities, or is simply too busy to worry about me, or this happy news. I am even beginning to doubt if this is happy news at all.

Or perhaps I am simply overanalysing everything, as usual.

Do not scold me for telling you before him, Henry. I only did because I know for certain that you will offer honesty, without attempting to protect my feelings. I know you will not judge me, nor panic. It is the firm truth that I need in this instance, Henry, and that is why I came to you. I trust that you will provide that, as my only friend.

With most gentle wishes,
Mab

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Author’s Note:

In life’s most difficult times, works of fiction can be a saving grace - a safe haven to escape the horrors of reality. I hope that you know you’re always welcome to escape to Whattley, along with Mabel.

Dearest Henry,

Oh, stop it at once – you are perhaps worrying more so than I at the state of my health! I admit, I have not improved as much as I would have liked, but there is improvement, at least. Should the condition worsen again, I will make haste in seeing a doctor. My sincerest apologies for making you worry so. I will be alright – I will make sure of it. I do not expect you to understand, but I was only reluctant to see a doctor because I was afraid that he would confirm my darkest suspicions.

These past weeks have been odd, indeed. It is a very peculiar thing, to reflect on such morbid circumstances, to think of a world that will continue without us in it, without so much as an acknowledgement that we even existed at all. I do not want to linger on those thoughts at all, Henry, so forgive my insistence that we now cease discussing the topic, despite the fact that I brought it up in the first instance.

Arthur has been away on business this past fortnight, and the house has felt most singular in his absence. I have taken to spreading my writing things across the kitchen table as though it were a proper desk – papers, ink, and all in a most unladylike disarray, though when Arthur returns, I shall of course put it all away again. I think I should be quite mortified for him to see it. He was able to travel by train, Henry – is that not incredibly exciting? I find myself picturing it still: the speed of it, the noise, the great billows of smoke. It seems a marvel of our age, though I cannot decide whether I should like to try it myself, or if I might be too frightened.

You were quite right that hearing of the wedding preparations would gladden me, only I am not as knowledgeable as you on the specific flora mentioned, and so I am finding it quite difficult to picture. Still, I suspect a minimal colour palette – nothing too extravagant, of course – with blooms surrounding the entrance of the church, and matching decorations inside, lining the aisle in a subtle yet wonderful manner that only you could master. I can, however, picture quite vividly Mr and Mrs Watson dancing well into the night regardless of everyone watching. I know for certain that the way that you described them, despite how long it has been since I visited Whattley, is entirely accurate and not at all a dramatisation of fact. I adore the Watsons. They were always the epitome of true love, were they not?

Speaking of true love, it is an awful shame that you do not think of Eleanor in a romantic way – of course, do not share that with her and break her heart now, will you, Henry? It is wonderful to hear that you continue to be friends with her, though. I was slightly concerned that in your haste to dismiss her aid you might have shunned her altogether, and so I am glad for you that that is not the case. Folk often speak of men and women being incapable of being only friends, and it must come as no surprise to you that I believe that to be entirely fictitious. And yet, I cannot help but think that, in my absence, it was only a matter of time until I was replaced. Still, it comforts me greatly to know that you are cared for in person, even if it is not by me.

Your concern for me is, I find, a most steadying thing. Though I would never wish to be so unwell again, there is a strange comfort in knowing I am not left entirely to myself in it. I wondered if you might tell me what you think of this, Henry, as I have been playing it over and over in my mind and cannot quite work out its meaning. As I go about my day, pottering around the village, I notice people - the vicar and his wife arm in arm, the village children playing together, a mother holding the hand of her small child while walking. It seems I cannot help but notice that everyone has somebody. I cannot quite identify what it means that I notice this. Am I simply lonely?

Please, Henry, fill your next letter with every tiny detail of joy you might spot in your days. Do not spare me anything, however small or ordinary it may seem to you. I should like to borrow, if only for a little while, the brightness of your world in place of my own.

With most gentle wishes,
Mab

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Author’s Note:

Thank you for your patience this week (if you’re reading in real time!) - I’ve been awfully unwell…funny timing, actually. Enjoy!

Dear Henry,

Do pass along my congratulations and kindest wishes to your brother and his soon-to-be wife – how very exciting! A wedding in Whattley is always the most beautiful of affairs, and with you entrusted with the floristry I am certain this one will be beyond anything my imagination might conjure. I shall quite grieve that I am not there to see it. Do tell me of it all, Henry, and spare no detail. I find myself revisiting your letters quite frequently, escaping into the worlds you describe almost effortlessly. Although I cannot be there, you make it feel as though I am.

It is most endearing – refreshing, even – to hear a gentleman speak of the commitment of marriage in such a romantic manner, rather than with the formality so many in society seem to attach to it. Perhaps you might already possess such a romance yourself, were you not so hasty in dismissing Eleanor’s offers of assistance while you were unwell. What a charming beginning to a romance novel that would make. You never did mention how she took to the flowers you delivered to her after your illness, you know? I cannot help but wonder whether you were so quick to refuse her kindness because you bear some interest in her, consciously or otherwise. I shall endeavour not to let my mind wander too far along that path. That said, it still rather astonishes me that you were not married long ago. I think you would make an excellent husband, to the right lady. I do hope she presents herself soon.

Thank you for your concern regarding my health. Oh Henry, I am whittling away on it, I fear. I cannot recall the last day that passed in which I did not retire early to bed, either from utter exhaustion or from one of these tiresome headaches. My ailments themselves appear trifling enough, yet to feel so unwell for such a length of time has planted a small and troublesome seed in my mind that there may be something more serious at play. I do not feel grievously ill – not in the manner of one overtaken by some grave complaint – yet still I find my thoughts turning to such possibilities. How is one ever to know the true limits of one’s own body? When serious illness takes hold, does one simply feel it, and know? I have never considered myself a particularly strong woman – do you suppose that means I am less able to withstand such things? Please, tell me frankly if you think I am behaving hysterically, and I shall endeavour to put an end to these thoughts. If not, I suppose I ought to consult the doctor before long.

I am very sorry that this letter must be shorter than the rest, Henry. I write by firelight and have the most dreadful headache once again, so I must close here and retire early to bed.

With most gentle wishes,
Mab

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More from me:

I can’t tell you how annoyed I am at myself for forgetting to finish and share my March reflection. The pros? That I have far more to say now than I did in March. Cons? That I have far more to say now than I did in March.

So, here’s a mish-mash of everything I’ve been trying, doing, eating, watching, and loving these past two months - some of it written back in March, and some written now, at the end of April.

Strap in, pals - it’s a rollercoaster.

What I’m Trying:

The hardest thing I have done this month is spend time away from my toddler. And I mean that literally - it was the most stressful, gut-wrenching feeling, to be parted with someone I have spent every single day with since he was born (he’s almost 2, for reference!). But, not only is it inevitable that I’ll have to do things without him eventually, it’s also essential that I date my husband.

We’ve spent the past two years doing ‘at home’ dates, or ‘family’ dates, but we miss each other. We miss being able to go to more intimate restaurants, we hate worrying about having to be back in time to do the toddler bedtime routine - we just need to relax.

We went to afternoon tea. It was free, too, because he had a voucher that he’d received as a birthday present from his colleagues. It was an absolute blessing really, because it meant we were essentially forced into going. No excuses. We had been saying for ages that we need to be able to trust others (the grandparents) to care for our child, and the only way to do that is exposure therapy - just do it.

So we did. And it was lovely.

What I’m Doing:

I’ve been searching for a wild garlic hunting ground for years now, and every year spring passes by without me being able to spot any. This year, on a sunny day in March, my husband and I decided to take our toddler for a walk by the river, and stumbled upon a new park. My nose knew before I did - lining the riverbank was the most wild garlic I have ever seen in my life!

We returned to this park many times over the course of the last two months, mostly to forage wild garlic. The best part of it isn’t only that my freezer is sufficiently stocked with homemade wild garlic pesto, and butter, but that each time we’ve visited, I’ve spotted a new plant I’ll be able to forage from in the coming months - cherry, raspberry, apple, elderflower, blackcurrants… let’s just say I am very much looking forward to the summer!

Something beautiful has grown from my newly found passion for foraging, though, and that is simply being outdoors. I am very much, and always have been, a homebody - someone who is very content to spend countless days at home, with not much to do. It’s my happy place. But recently, I’ve found myself keen to get outside, to walk to the park more often with my toddler, without even realising so. On reflection, the thing that makes this more enjoyable now is that I am paying more attention than I ever was before.

Before, I would stroll through the park entirely consumed by my inner monologue or trying to keep up with a toddler who might be a little overenthusiastic and overconfident on the slide for a two year old. Now, I’m sitting in the grass, spotting bumblebees collect pollen from buttercups, counting the ladybirds as I name as many different plants as I can spot, and taking photos of the ones I don’t recognise to identify later. Some might say it’s simply being present. I’d argue it’s far more - a connection, or reconnection, with the earth.

EDIT: I also forgot to include that I’m doing an entire overhaul of my garden! Down the bottom of the garden, we (husband) have dug out a small area which we’re turning into a veg patch! I’m hoping to be able to provide a little update in my May reflection! Use more exclamation marks, Georgia! Wow!!!!

What I’m Eating:

Seemingly endless amounts of Mexican food. Chilli con carne, fajitas, baked chicken tacos, enchiladas, even fish finger tacos! We’ve been totally obsessed, and we have no idea why.

I wanted to change things up a little and make my own sauce to use on all of these dishes, and this Avocado Crema is absolutely gorgeous. It works as a dip, drizzle, spread…anything you need. I don’t have an exact recipe for it, because I basically just chuck everything in a blender and adjust it as needed. Here’s how I make it:

In a food processor (or in a jug, and use an immersion blender) add half an avocado, greek yoghurt (a little more in amount than the avocado), a handful of fresh coriander, juice of one lime, a clove of garlic, and a generous pinch of salt. Blend until completely smooth. Adjust with more lime juice or salt if needed.

Other Recipes I’ve loved this month:

• Overnight No Knead Baguettes

• Greek Meatball Traybake

What I’m Watching:

One Day - I needed something easy, a typical romance, a Netflix binge. University student and classic northern lass Emma Morley meets rich and popular Dexter Mayhew on the night of their graduation. The story follows them both through life after university, facing the pressures of adulthood and the struggles of meeting everyone else’s expectations - including each other’s. A few episodes in, I was completely hooked, but I was not ready to be so entirely emotionally devastated by a netflix series, though. No spoilers, but ouch. I am absolutely not ashamed to admit that I cried on multiple occasions throughout this series, and I am not a cryer when it comes to TV/film. What is wrong with me?!

Bridgerton - I know, I know, I’m late to the party on this one. But the perks of waiting so long to catch up with season 4 is that I can watch both parts together, all in one go! It really is a comfort show at this point, but I’ve seen a spoiler (by accident) so I just know this season will absolutely break me.

(I wrote that in March - I can now confirm I have finished watching Bridgerton S4 and it did in fact bring me to tears. Maybe my favourite season yet!)

What I’m Loving:

• salted honey iced oat latte

• my blue mug

• arts and crafts

• nature walks

• foraging

• chocolate coated malted milk biscuits

• gingham bedding

• azelaic acid

• homemade lemonade

• planning the garden

• a cool breeze

Posts I’ve loved:

in no particular order, of course

collab o’clock

Anyone Can Cook! (metaphorically)

Picture this: you’re sitting next to me in ninth grade geometry class. We’re learning about angles or trapezoids or whatever and I lean over, bored, and whisper what should I draw? You, my best friend, suggest I doodle a bunny. So I do. And thus, Beep Beep was born…

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6 months ago · 25 likes · 22 comments · kirby and caroline cherry

Daydreamer's Corner

All that is good and lovely

I capture everything that stings and bites effortlessly. I collect thorns and needles, and make friends with snakes and other feral creatures, but struggle to lie comfortably on a soft bed of moss and enjoy the gentle light of fireflies…

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5 months ago · 38 likes · 36 comments · Marie Rose 🥀

An Olive Daily

Mother Mirror

You look just like your mom…

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5 months ago · 23 likes · 6 comments · Olivia Auxier

stars in disguise

to be a star, nothing more

I carry constellations within while you name only the brightest stars, I hear you think and speak the words while I watch from afar. The universe is expanding, as are my thoughts, they dissipate like smoke whenever they want to be heard, so my heart is constantly caught in flames, an untameable, undying, always-expanding fire…

Read more

5 months ago · 18 likes · 15 comments · Ella 🪐🎩💫

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Author’s Note:

Perhaps one of the most beautiful parts of growing up is realising just how much you have changed - reflecting on past events, on how you might deal with them now versus how you dealt with them before. It’s an odd thing, to be a different person than you once were. But maybe it’s a good thing, if you’ve changed because someone brought out the best in you.

Dearest Henry,

How glad I am to hear that life is starting to restore its usual order. I cannot imagine that the stress of it all would do you much good, given that you are not long recovered. I must admit I have been awfully worried about you since you left Stotely, hoping that you might go easy upon yourself. I suppose now that things are settling again, you might finally have the opportunity to do so.

I can picture you quite easily now, almost at home among the blooms as you potter about the florist, instructing patrons on which colours absolutely do not pair well together and advising young gentlemen on which posies say just enough to their latest romantic interest as to not be overbearing. Do tell me about your day, Henry, what you busy yourself with while working. Do you spend long moments intricately wrapping bouquets in brown paper, and selecting a ribbon from a vast drawer which holds your collection? Do you sneak a few petals into your tea when nobody is looking? I am very much interested in the smallest of matters, so ensure you do not omit anything one might consider tiresome, as I would very much like to hear it.

I have seen to it that Arthur and I have a thorough clearing out of our house - we were becoming overwhelmed with all sorts of clutter, so much so that we owned things which did not even have a place. I would spend days moving things around, placing them in new homes, only to do the very same thing the next day, and the next. Arthur insisted that he would be responsible for the entirety of the upstairs, as long as I promised to leave his study alone - an offer that I snapped up eagerly before he retracted, simply a bargain! How lucky I must be, to have a husband so willing to aid in the household responsibilities from time to time.

So, while Arthur pottered away upstairs, I removed every ounce of clutter from the kitchen and the parlour, packing bits and bobs away into cupboards or discarding things entirely. I came across a small trunk, which I did not even know we owned, so I chose to repurpose it as a new home for my writing paraphernalia. It now sits, containing all of your correspondence, neatly beside my armchair which sits by the south-west window - chosen specifically so that I might enjoy the declining afternoon sun as I read.

Of course, the job in itself was tiresome, but I must say that now that we are finished, the house feels in proper order again and very much like a fresh start - one that I am particularly grateful for given how tired I have been, as of late. Although only now as I write does it cross my mind that this tiredness might be due to the fact that I spend many evenings a week on long, solitary walks, among the fields behind our house and through the village. I find myself with far more time, in the summertime, and especially now, with Arthur’s awfully busy work schedule. It is beautifully peaceful. There is a meadow which reminds me of you, the most vibrant grass speckled with dainty flowers as if conjured by faeries. I much suspect you’d enjoy spending a quiet evening there. If it had not been for the countless other places I insisted on taking you to, I am sure I would have remembered to take you there, when you visited.

I think it incredibly wise, your reflections on the ‘Whattley Scandal’. You are quite right, I believe, that private hearts are rarely understood from the outside. If I have learned anything since my removal here, and the beginning of my life with Arthur, it is that circumstances are often kinder than gossip allows. There was an unfortunate deal of speculation about me in my first weeks - much invented history, and very little truth. It brought back to mind, too, how readily people will shape a story where affection and familiarity are plainly seen. Do you remember how, at home, they would sometimes speak of us as though our futures had already been settled between us? I thought it foolish then, and perhaps it was - yet I see now, how little those looking on can ever truly know. I think I should have remembered my own experience sooner, and been slower to lend my thoughts to any tale whose beginning and ending were probably imagined.

You always did bring out the best in me, Henry. I suspect much of who I am is owed to you.

With most gentle wishes,
Mab

P.S: I confess I have long wished to sign myself ‘Mab’, yet she has always felt to me somewhat distant – a girl left behind in Whattley many years ago. I am glad, and truly grateful, that you have helped her to return.

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I awake from my slumber a dreary shell. Loose threads of linen scratch at my bare ankles as I contemplate moving. I will. I will. My eyes press shut without telling them to. I will.

The coldness of the floorboards on my bare feet doesn’t bother me anymore. A ghost possesses my bones, drags my body towards the kitchen in search of sustenance, of fuel, of anything that might preserve my body a little while longer. He catches my hand as I miss the switch on the kettle the first time. He guides me to the cupboard, to the mugs and to the bottles. One spoon in yours, four scoops in hers.

My fingers thread through a mug handle, firmly clasping around the ceramic. The burning of mug against skin does nothing to rouse me. This is my existence now - a disconnect between mind and body that feels inevitable, eternal. I gulp, despite the temperature. It burns.

The morning passes without me paying it any attention. The ghost takes over, feeds the beast, ticks off the to-do list. It’s a routine, now. He knows what to do.

The beast sleeps, and I find myself with a rare moment of peace, solitude. The ghost guides me up the stairs, and stands me in front of the mirror which hangs on the wardrobe door. The eyes that meet mine look sunken and grey. The clothes hang loosely from a lifeless body. I don’t know when this happened, but I don’t linger on the thought of it.

My eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, fall closed. The darkness is warm, a rare comfort I’ve come to appreciate more as each day passes. I am alone.

A touch to my cheek startles me, my eyes bolting open to meet the ones in the mirror once more. But they don’t look back. An arm is outstretched towards me, palm facing upwards as it moves to cup my cheek. A thumb brushes, gentle, yet cold. The eyes move across my body, analysing, assessing the damage. A look of curiosity or confusion washes over the face as slowly, the eyes meet mine. Confusion melts, and in its place, only stillness.

I dare not move.

The other hand reaches towards my face, tucking a single strand of matted hair behind my ear. My head, now cradled between two cold, fragile hands, remains entirely still.

I jolt.

A scream pierces from downstairs.

I run.

As a parent, exhaustion and burnout are something else.

It’s not at all unique to parents, but parenting has its own version of it, because there is no end. There is no pause, no breaks. You cannot ‘opt out’ because you need to reset. Sure, perhaps a moment here or there, if you’re lucky, but you are always a parent, and always needed.

And that is without taking into account any additional factors — disability, neurodivergence, work responsibilities… We have no choice but to put these aside. Parents come last. Children come first.

Of course they do.

But what happens when we are never first, even for just a few moments? A quick shower before they wake up, or a quiet coffee in the garden while they nap? It’s easy to say that these moments must be chosen or prioritised, but when you live a life entirely devoted to taking care of someone else, it’s hard to believe that choosing yourself is even an option sometimes.

I lived with the ghost for quite some time. He learned the routine and carried me through each day, and for that I am grateful. But the ghost should not have to be in control. This is survival, not living.

I wish I’d realised that sooner.

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Author’s Note:

I’ve been quite ahead with writing for some time now, and this week I have written the final chapter! I must say, tears were shed. Apologies in advance!

Don’t worry, though - it’s not this one. Plenty more to come!

Dearest Henry,

How delighted I was to return home today to see your letter waiting for me on the doorstep. I recognised it straight away by your handwriting - the way you write your Ls with a loop gives you away immediately, Henry. Despite a headache which had been lingering for far too long, I sat myself at the kitchen table to read it without even putting away the vegetables I had bought at the market, both rushing through it with excitement but refraining from reading too fast so that I might savour it a little longer.

I know that I mentioned it perhaps one too many times already, but your visit to Stotely was by far one of the most superb surprises one might wish for. To be reacquainted with an old friend is one thing, but to set eyes upon their face, to hear their familiar voice, to lay with them in the grass at sunset just like countless times before was…well Henry, I can’t explain it. You’ve done the impossible - you’ve rendered Mab speechless.

I must emphasise, though, that your endless apologies for the short pause in correspondence were unnecessary. The hurriedness of life, especially that of a businessman, is bound to keep us from completing all we intend to do. I might know that better than anyone, as of late.

How relieved I am to hear that you are well and busy again. There I was, prior to your visit, letting the deepest corners of my mind believe that something awful might have happened, that you might have been taken so unwell you were unable to lift a finger, never mind a pen. In a way, I am surprised at how much our correspondence means to me, but I also know our friendship has always meant more to me than I could explain. I suppose I should not be surprised that a lapse in communication would have such an effect on me, given how I felt in the few weeks after leaving Whattley.

To hear there are a significant number of muddled orders at the florist following your absence is not in the least bit surprising. That you had Edward running the shop while you were away explains it all, I think! How could you have trusted him at all, given his reputation? You must have been as desperate as you mentioned, because I could never imagine leaving an entire business in the hands of the boy who, in the same summer, spooked a horse outside of the greengrocer’s, causing it to knock over crates upon crates of vegetables, and dropped an entire glass jar of humbugs in the street whilst helping Mr Peterson unpack his deliveries for the shop. Do you remember how smug Edward looked as he stuffed his pockets with all the dirty humbugs from the pavement? Mr Peterson could not have sent him on his way sooner. Goodness, Henry, what on earth did you expect? Of course, I am not surprised in the slightest to hear that you were able to fix everything within a matter of days. Who would be delivering your congratulatory flowers, Henry, if you own the florist? I suppose a large display of gratitude in the village square would be quite appropriate, would it not? I’m only teasing, of course. I expect that all of this trouble would have amounted to an awful lot of stress, so I hope you are now able to rest, at least somewhat.

While I cannot say that I did not miss you greatly after you left, the quiet gave me space to notice my own days. I filled my time with the small domestic responsibilities, of course, but even in my keeping busy, I was reminded of you. Like when I changed the bed linens, I was reminded of the time your mother scolded us both for using her new linens to build a tent in the garden, covering them in grass stains. Or when I was working on perfecting my country loaf recipe (again, yes - I am still not entirely happy with it) and I thought of the summer where you absolutely refused to eat anything except for strawberry jam sandwiches. And when Arthur came in one evening carrying the scent of crushed lilac upon his coat – some neighbourly gardening errand, I believe – and for a fleeting instant I was reminded of how you used to insist spring and summertime ought always to smell that way. I did not say so aloud, of course. I simply find it quite odd that we might be reminded of someone dear to us in such obscure, small ways.

Now, onto arguably the most important anecdote contained in your letter, the Whattley Scandal. I never trusted Elizabeth, even when we were in school. She was odd, was she not? Always tiptoeing around the boys and begging them to let her play, rather than skipping or singing with us girls. I suppose knowing that she was always so interested in male attention should mean it comes as no surprise that she has been having an affair, but I am shocked and entirely curious to know more. Who was it with? How did her husband come to know of it? Of course, I would assume that you have told me all you know, but if you find out any more details please pass them on with a matter of urgency. How I yearn for the minor dramatics Whattley seemed to offer almost endlessly. That village is like living within a novel, twists and turns at every corner, filled with tiny unexpected moments and shocking revelations. I miss it, greatly. Stotely is drab in comparison. It is so lovely to hear nothing has changed.

I am truly happy, Henry, that you are well. Returning pen to paper again, chatting away as though you are still sitting next to me rather than so many miles away again, makes me truly happy. And though I did not say it whilst you were here, your visit meant more to me than I am able to put into words. You are a comfort I cannot explain. Although, I suppose it simply feels like home.

With most gentle wishes,
Mabel Harrington

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When two writers experience the same betrayal, it feels almost instinctive to carry it to the page. In these poems and personal essays, and I reflect on the expectations of friendship — and on the ache of discovering that some people take more than they are willing to give.

The Healer, by

Darling,
my sweet angel,
take my hand -
I’ll guide you through
the meadow.

Sunlight spilling gold
across bare shoulders,
daisies drift like whispers
across fingertips,
petals brushing skin
as we run,
run,
run.

Allow me to gauze your knee,
tend to you,
care for you,
repeat those same lessons
we endlessly rehearse.

And yet,
leave me,
deserted at duskfall,
to find my own way home.

Postscript, by

My husband is a geography teacher. We often spend our evenings with him planning his lessons on his laptop while I binge watch a show in the background. I pretend I hate geography, but sometimes I simply cannot hide my curiosity.

He taught me recently about waves, oceans, and erosion. He explained how the waves erode the shoreline over time, and how some waves are more likely to do this than others. Some waves are constructive — they approach the shoreline with gusto, and pull away gently, leaving behind whatever sediment they carry. Some waves are destructive — they’ll approach the shore gently, but harshly pull away sediment from the shoreline, and over time reduce the size of the beach entirely, unless there is some sort of human intervention.

I am a victim of destructive waves.

It is incredibly easy for me to allow people in. I am trusting, nurturing, and I want the best for everyone I encounter. If someone needs help, I am always the first to offer it, and I think that has got me in more trouble than I care to admit. Not everyone has the same intentions as I do. There are people who will greedily lap up anything offered to them and more, draining and depleting the source. There are people who will allow you to tend to their wounds, without even asking if yours are okay — let alone offering an attempt to heal them.

I’ve let an awful lot of people deplete my resources. I’ve been the friend everyone thinks of first in a crisis, there to provide whatever emotional support was required and also point them in the right direction afterwards, while being left to wipe my own tears when nobody thought to help me. I’ve reached out to people online because I saw them struggling, only for them to emotionally manipulate me when I tried to set boundaries as it became too intense. I’ve had a lifetime of feeling guilty for saying no, and yet even in knowing the damage they are doing, even though it’s a tale as old as time, I let them. I show up. I do what I believe is morally correct — even if it’s self-sacrificial.

Of course, that is not to say that I expect relationships to be entirely reciprocal. Not every act requires a reciprocal act. Not everything is an exchange of service. But, fundamentally, it is. Relationships do, to an extent, function this way. We do not act one way because someone acted another way towards us — more so that we act a certain way because we should, and we want to. My husband does not buy me flowers simply because I stay home looking after our child. It’s because he appreciates my hard work, knows I enjoy tulips in a ceramic jug on the kitchen table, and he knows I’ll think of him every time I walk past them.

I’m trying, really, to not be that person anymore, to be mindful of the situations I place myself in, and of how much of myself I give to others. But simultaneously, I am reminding myself that the way I have been treated by others, the way they have drained me of everything I can offer and more, it is not my fault. It’s in their nature. It is their choice.

It’s a learning process, I suppose — how to walk that tightrope between a mutually beneficial relationship and co-dependency. I’m really trying to recognise that some storms are not mine to weather, that I do not need to intervene simply because the opportunity is there. I do not need to try to fix things, simply because I feel like I can. People have to learn for themselves, and I have a duty of care for myself, above anyone else. It is an awful shame more people don’t realise that about themselves.

There is a difference between allowing someone close and being responsible for what they do once they arrive. My openness is mine to examine; their harm is theirs to own.

Waves, as a collective, do not wash upon the shoreline with one sole intention. They do not exist only to take from the beach, or solely to deposit the sediment they carry. We can hardly hold the beach accountable for the damage caused to it, can we?

Poem, by

sometimes
the ones who lean on you the hardest
are the first to vanish
when your own knees shake.

they arrive with storms in their arms,
lay their thunder at your feet,
call you steady,
call you light—
rest their breaking
against your patience
as if your chest were built
for every ruin.

you believe
harbors work both ways,
but when your sky dims,
when the brave architecture of your smile
begins to crack,
the doorway empties.

their echoes stay.
they do not.

it is a quiet grief—
to learn you were a bridge
for those who never meant
to cross back.

still, you do not harden.

a lighthouse does not go dark
because ships forget its name.
a cathedral does not close
because the faithful wander.

you gather your scattered stars.
you become your own shelter.

and the next time someone leans,
you offer your strength—
but softly,
you ask
if they can hold
some of yours too.

Postscript, by

i’m still learning that empathy without boundaries is self sacrifice. it’s really easy for me to allow people take advantage of my empathy even when i don’t particularly see it. i am a trusting person - too trusting at times, i have been told. i am maternal, and nurture anyone who i feel needs nurturing. i always notice when someone needs help and i am always the first person that steps up to help anyone, despite the consequences for me. even if it might cause me discomfort or pain, i will still put the other person’s needs and wants before my own.

i know that not everyone wants to help people. there are the type of people that are willing to help and be helped, and there are also people who will allow you heal them, but with no return of asking about the wounds that you yourself carry.

i’ve reached out to practically anyone, both online or in person, who i saw struggling, only to be taken advantage of - as well as emotionally manipulated - when it started becoming too much for me to bare.

there is someone who i was friends with for a year and a half, and i honestly believed we would lifelong friends. we had a soft and gentle bond - we met through writing and it was, to put it simply, relatively blissful. later into our friendship, i made another friend (someone who later turned out to be a bad influence, and a bad person in general) and i eventually introduced the two to each other. i was, of course, happy at the time, although as their friendship grew, my feelings changed - frustration, and as though i had been tossed to the side.

i am the girl who keeps her heart on her sleeve. i keep myself vulnerable even when i do not mean to, i have a high emotional intelligence and i am always very attuned to the emotions of others, sometimes it takes a toll on me and then i feel like i need to fix everything myself. my partner and i occasionally spend our time together talking about feelings, and how for practically all of my life i have always felt the need to help everyone and do everything to ensure that nothing goes wrong. we notice the toll it takes on me and how i am a victim of manipulation. i care so deeply that it backfires at times and my trust in people fades and takes a while to come back. we have helped each other understand why we act in ways that we do and how to figure ourselves more and help each other grow together.

you are allowed to set boundaries - if anything you should keep them in place. you aren’t a villain if you put boundaries between you and another person, you are keeping yourself in every capacity safe. allow yourself to protect your peace, and if people can’t respect that, that’s on them. it’s easier said than done, and yes it will take time - it took me a long time - but have faith in you, what you want and what you are willing to do to keep yourself comfortable.

~

Author’s Note:

I’ve struggled a little with writing recently, but your love for Mabel keeps me going. It has grown a little quieter over here recently, but for those of you still here - thank you a million times over, for the support you have shown this series so far.

Dear Henry,

I suppose I might be writing out of turn, having only sent my last letter six days ago, but I am yet to hear from you and I must say that I am growing anxious. I admit, I check the doorstep on numerous occasions throughout the day, fearing that I might have missed the postboy, or been far too loud while going about my responsibilities that I simply did not hear him. I have checked behind the flowerpots on the doorstep and asked about the village, lest it have been delivered elsewhere. I fear I have grown too accustomed to hearing from you so promptly, and this silence has unsettled me quite a bit more than one might expect.

Although, this discomfort is one that only demonstrates the importance of what may be lost. You have always mattered to me, and I grieved our loss in the years in which we did not speak. When I relocated to marry Arthur, I often felt as though I was not whole, that I was not the same girl I was in Whattley. I now realise that feeling was due to a part of me being left behind. Our correspondence is not merely old friends chattering away, it is a continuation of every conversation we once had, something far more longstanding and precious. I do hope this is not the end of that, Henry.

Might I have misspoken? My last letter was written in such a hurry, with many mistakes, that I might get my ideas to paper quickly enough. I cannot quite recall everything I told you. Perhaps it was not something that I said, but that I said too much, or spoke too freely. Did speaking of death upset you, Henry? I hope not. I meant everything I said in the gentlest of ways.

I suppose it could also have been the poem. Please accept my sincerest apologies for including it at all, I was simply carried away by the romance of my reading, the dynamic of the characters so exhilarating that I felt part of it, almost to the extent of living in a literary bubble. I meant nothing improper by writing it, nor by sharing it with you. I only wanted your thoughts. But please, Henry, do not read into it. It was a simple literary exercise, as I found myself one day playing poet, far too influenced by what I read, it seems. I deeply regret any unease or discomfort I may have caused. But please do not ignore me — tell me, Henry. I am a big girl, after all, I can handle it.

I treasure our friendship, Henry. Above all, I value you as my longest and closest friend. You are the person who chased away the mean boys when they pushed me over in the playground. The boy who allowed me to fall asleep in a meadow after eating far too many biscuits you had stolen from your mother’s biscuit tin, only waking me when my mother called me for supper, and making sure that I would not be the one to get into trouble for being late. Our friendship is a part of me. You exist within a place in my heart that I cannot find, the part that races when your letters arrive, and aches when they do not.

If it is something more personal, and I am not to blame, you owe me no explanation. I understand very well that you may simply be tired or busy. I suppose — though writing it makes it feel a much too real possibility — that you might also be unwell again. If that is the case, and you are much too unwell to write, a simple note of I am unwell will suffice and I will think well thoughts and send an overly romanticised review of my latest read to cheer you up. I should hate to think anything awful has happened. I will say an additional prayer in church this Sunday, just in case.

I do hope to hear from you soon, Henry, even if it is simply a goodbye.

With most gentle wishes,
Mabel Harrington

Writing has become a passion of mine as stay-at-home mum. If you enjoy my work, you can support it here:

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If you wish to further immerse yourself in the world of Mabel and Henry, you can do so here, on my ever-growing Pinterest board.

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