the separation, and she’d told him not to worry, because you could never doubt Harry. But as weeks turned to months one could see how inadequate self-styled mottos were – rise to meet the challenge, battle to overcome – her early version of keep calm and carry on. But the worry now was that sometimes you couldn’t. You couldn’t carry on. Sometimes you failed. She had failed before. And this experiment, like any other, was based not only on wisdom from past mistakes but hope. Yes, hope, pure hope, and the belief that one had chosen wisely. That the sacrifices had been and would be worthwhile. And it relied on faith, the kind of belief you gave blindly, when you weren’t sure at all.
‘Mama?’
She turns around, suddenly surprised by the existence of another. Christophe, clutching Pookie, his pyjamas showing a damp spot.
‘Mama, my tummy doesn’t hurt any more.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes, I’m much better. All the sick’s come out.’
‘Good,’ then suddenly it registers. ‘What?’
‘The sick’s come out, Mama,’ he looks at her sheepishly. ‘But I missed the bucket.’
© Lesia Daria
5