by Francesca Morosi

Created on: June 01, 2008   Last Updated: November 09, 2008

It's over. It is really over this time. I remember having said these words a thousand other times before, but this time was real. I packed all his clothes in the biggest suitcase I could find, collected a pile of his stupid gadgets and drop it in a plastic bag. His books are still in the shelves, I will sort them out tomorrow. I bought his ticket online, a flight from Nottingham to Dublin, no return. This time is the time: no more excuses, no more delays, no more bull*T about it.

He's back. My God. He's back. I heard him talking with himself downstairs. He's upset. He's loud. Of course he is upset. I did expect this to happen there is nothing that will make this mess work, EVER. So I will simply explain my state of mind, I will be calm and concise and I won't let him talking over me. Yes, but what if he cries? No, he won't cry. Yes, he might. Then it won't matter anyway. I must protect my baby. Think about the way G. will suffer. I'll keep a voice of courage inside my head: "Think about your baby and nothing else. He surely deserves more that two unstable bickering parents".

We have been squabbling loudly until 3 a.m. last night. A miracle that the neighbours didn't call the 999. And I started again with the flying mugs. I couldn't control myself. It is awful and it can't be right. G. needs a peaceful family. We will never be a peaceful family.
While thinking this I walked down the stairs, I found him sitting on the sofa, I met his eyes for a second, I stayed silent for what it seemed over a minute or an hour - time calculations are unimportant when you're mastering bravery- than I started to talk.

I was not aware of being mumbling. The things that I wanted so badly to say were not on a list and his face did not look like he registered anything I said... he asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee and that was the ultimate sign of my defeat: of course... we would have a cup of coffee and we will burst into a laugh about the silliness of our own reactions, and he will take my hands and he will tell me the things I want to hear, like how unintelligent his fantasy was, how ignoble to accuse me of lying. And me, I will wonder again: how can he not recognise the incredibility of his own speculations?

Of course, no. This time no. I've never had that coffee. I took the ticket out of my pocket and asked him to leave. "Your bus is in half hour, you'd be better going".
He looked at me in total confusion, his eyes shattering in absolute disbelief.
I was asking him to leave me, to

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