This story is inspired by this NY Times article. It is entirely fictional and no offence is intended to the character references or to the readers.
I finished this garage on my own. My dream home. Loft extension, paintjob, plumbing, electricity,… Does that make me the superwoman I was hoping to be?
I have an art installation dedicated to Papa.
I have a loving husband in that house, waiting for me and probably wondering what I am doing here, as always.
Yet, I come back here to be on my own, to sit on these beautifully designed and perfectly-placed-for-a-photo-shoot furniture to cry and feel sorry for myself.
Momya sees the disquiet in me every time we meet. She asks pointed questions which I artfully dodge, but for how long can I keep that up?
When Robin finds out, would he leave? I see the pattern, but I can’t stop it.
There is nothing that I cannot achieve. I tell that to myself everyday and I believe it. It is all bullshit, isn’t it? What am I trying to prove and to whom? If I am truthful to myself, I doubt Papa cares. He can hardly concentrate long enough to finish his meals. Momya is just sad for me, I know. And Robin…
Robin. If I tell you the truth, will you still stay?