I drifted into a strange reverie after I finished raising a cottage on the edge of the sea.
I was born in a little hamlet tucked away in the Yorkshire dales. I am twentytwo now, and my mother and father have only just slipped from this world, so I could leave my tiny hometown without a whisper of regret. Their funerals were humble affairs; hardly anyone from the extended clan turned up, even though the two of them had a mountain of siblings.
When the graves were filled, every relative suddenly had an urgent errand to attend to. May the Good Lord watch over you, I thought, and I decided that the only sensible thing was to get away, for the memories were too sharp to bear.
Life in my birthplace had never been a smooth road. It started back at the old comprehensive, where my classmates took advantage of me at every turn. After university and a first job, I became the perpetual boytobescolded for my bosses. I racked my brain and finally resolved to try my luck elsewhere. I sold the family house, packed my few belongings, and set off for a better life on the coast. In Cornwall I bought a sliver of earth and there raised a oneroom, oneandahalfstorey cottage of about a hundred and fifty square metres, its walls whispering of seasalt and wind.
When the walls were up, I snapped pictures of the little house and flung them onto every social platform I could think of. During the build I phoned a parade of kin, hoping for counsel, but they all swore they knew nothing. No one offered a hint, no one lent a hand.
When summer unfurled its long, lazy days, the same relatives began to ring, announcing that they had decided to spend the holidays by the sea and asking if they might crash in my cottage. I could have said yes, but why?
At the time my parents were laid to rest, my kin had been too poor to travel; they whispered that they could barely make ends meet. Yet now they were eager to holiday in my modest home, a request that felt anything but generous.
That summer I learned, in a dreamfilled haze, that I truly have a great many relatives, that they love me, that they miss me, and even former schoolmates started popping up in my inbox, showering me with compliments, sweet words, and invitations to visit.
I grew weary of the hollowness. I posted a confession on the networks, calling it an innocent lie or a fanciful dream, whichever fit. I attached a picture of the weathered shack and claimed I had lost every penny from my parents house, that this was all I could afford, and begged anyone to come and perhaps help mend the roof. As soon as the post went live, the relatives and old friends vanished again, citing urgent business, andironicallydeclaring they were as penniless as church mice.
Now I wonder why people wear such twofaced masks, why the world can be so cruel. I lie on the warm sand, letting the sun melt into my skin, thinking of uploading those pictures to my own little corner of the web. Yet I decide not to wave a red flag in front of a charging bull, to stir envy. Perhaps next year Ill share a real photograph of my true home, just to see what echoes back from my family.
