One responder, perhaps thinking of the previous infidelity question, advises that yes, of course the wife should have a cellphone… and they should sign up for detailed billing. As long as it goes both ways! For those in a less serious frame of mind, check out our best jokes about marriage. If the answer to why people divorce was this simple, marriage counselors everywhere would be out of business.
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Read up on 15 things this divorce lawyer wants all married couples to know. The wife, understandably not excited about two weeks of the silent treatment in her own home, is demanding he do something. One helpful reader hit on the perfect solution: Send the wife away on an all-expenses paid luxury vacation and he can stay in the apartment alone with his grudge-holding parents.
His wife? Not so much.
Oh and he likes to mess around on his computer late at night. We need to stay out of sight. Fire is out of the question, and so is kindness, so we rely on stolen shelter, and even then, only rarely. Thankfully the days are short this time of year.
The journey is frigid and draining—every sound, every movement puts me on edge—but soon we fall into a rhythm, hiding in outbuildings and barns, drinking from wells when we find them, or animal troughs at worst. The wound on my calf scabs over and soon starts to itch. But my foot is different.
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She was said to have escaped the year before I arrived in the Commune—said to have made it to Estevan, only to be driven back by a couple of overzealous cops. But I do know there was a Grace 14, and no Grace 13, when I arrived.ahyrotunun.tk
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Not this close to winter. Cars on these roads pass as often as winning lottery tickets at the local 7Eleven. Anyway, everyone knows about the Commune Interlaw Agreement, a no-questions-asked-let-the-Commune-deal-with-their-own policy. Enforcement is nothing short of draconian, so no one would dare pick up a twelve-year-old and two-year-old in Commune dresses and take them anywhere but a police station.
In this area, a little suspicion could be the end of us. Making that full miles on foot in December is like swimming the Pacific wrapped in shark bait. Spring now, and for eight long months you have been trapped in a state of waiting. You are thirty-four weeks pregnant, you are two hearts beating. You are nine and a half kilos heavier than usual. Sleep is difficult; having a bath is a cumbersome exercise in logistics, like mooring a boat. At home in Kentish Town you stare in the bedroom mirror daily, watch your belly swell, elongate, distend.
You hate being the person for whom old men give up their seats on the Tube, but your ankles are so swollen you force yourself to say yes. Eat almonds! Sleep on your left side! Each day you occupy more space in the world. You wonder how much more you can take up. Dead on your feet, you work thirteen-hour days, attending with great care to each animal that comes in, hoping your boss might notice you before you disappear. An old lady with a rabbit pats your stomach and coos. You are highly visible and at the same time, invisible.
As if this creature has already taken your place. Your flat gets smaller as the baby items build: some bought, others gifted, all pristine and waiting, too. You are eleven again, sniffing your patent Mary-Janes, admiring the crisp heft of textbooks, ready for a new term. The nursery is perfumed with aloe and antibacterials, special things to ward off germs or infection.
You finger these unfamiliar things, hold them to your nose. That you joke about it constantly, but you cannot agree on names. That sleep is a halfway house of dark and private fears. As you wait, you wonder. You dream of birthing animals, of dropping babies from heights. You avoid thinking about the violence that will take place within your body, the ways in which it might explode your insides or your life.
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Instead you ask yourself: what will she or he be like, this child? What will your days be like? Disrupted, certainly; more fulfilled, you hope. Ben will take to fatherhood, you are sure about that. When you told him you were pregnant, all the way back in August, he reacted with uncomplicated delight. He bought the What to Expect books and, one icy Sunday in February, cleared out the tiny study where he wrote, sighing as he unscrewed his Ikea desk. Dark hair falling in copper eyes, the face you fell in love with, older now. We should just throw this out.
He bent down and kissed your stomach, a proven way to banish tension. The next day, he stuffed three black sacks with books bound for Oxfam. You wallpapered the study in rainbows. Sometimes they begin in a quiet way, there and not there, the way cows sense rain before the cloudbreak. You paid ten pounds for a photo to take home, curious to see your inside outside.
It clings to the fridge with blu-tac, this evidence of head and limbs growing. Next to it are the other pixelated swirls, black-and-white negatives of life, each one a little less fuzzy, a little more real. He turned to face me, excited. Dawn light assaulted my vision, whiteness swallowed the living room.
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The waxy perfume of plane trees crept in from outside, and distantly, the plaintive call of wood pigeons. I stood drowsy in my pyjamas, which failed by inches now to stretch over my stomach and rubbed sleep from my eyes. The baby had thrashed and kicked for hours until I finally blacked out around two.
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He wore a skinny vest and running shorts, and a pink headband that declared Protect the Human , emblazoned with a candle in a cage, tufts of dark hair sticking up from underneath. I had an image of my husband as a rangy Irish wolf hound, all limbs and frenetic energy. Porridge, kit bag, Tube to Blackheath.
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