My husband grew up in a joyful, warm-hearted family. But when his father turned fifty-seven, his wife slipped away into the ether, leaving him alone. Of course, the loss shook my father-in-law to his core; surviving such a void seemed impossible. So, in a blur of dream logic, we agreed to sell his flat, divide the pounds from the sale, and bring him to live with us, believing his sorrow might eventually fade in our company. It all seemed reasonable enough.
We expected him to stay for perhaps half a year, at which point he’d find his own placehis own ordinary English dwelling. But something strange happened; he found a wonderful comfort in our home. For bills and shopping, he never offered a single pound. I was sweeping his room, washing his shirts, preparing his meals; he floated off to work each morning, untethered and carefree. His days unfolded like an endless holiday somewhere between the clouds and the kitchen.
He lingered with us for eleven yearsyears that blurred together like the colours on a watercolour canvas. Then he began weaving didactic tales, lecturing us constantly on what to do, how to do it; he invented peculiar rules of his own, and the air was heavy with exasperation. We were quite done. So, we decided to buy him a house just outside the citysomething modest and bright. He is healthy, still standing at the crossroads of mid-life, perfectly able to live independently, if only he’d see it.
We purchased a home, tucked under an English sky, and did all we could to ready it for his arrival. But my father-in-law spun stories about heart pains and mysterious ailments, conjuring complaints from the air. He wasnt unwell; he simply wanted to stay cocooned with us. But I can no longer bear it. I yearn to rest, to have my own small family, to reclaim quietude. Im exhausted, drifting. What should I do?
