In the schematic of my life marriage is an economic contract, no more, no less. This view is entirely traditional and conservative. I harbor no romantic illusions; emotions are messy and transient. People may feel all sorts of things, but true love is expressed through discipline and hard work.
I am by all accounts quite difficult to know, whether judged as friend, mother, daughter, partner, colleague. But I give as much as I get. The people around me are hugely problematic and adorable in equal measure; we often struggle to take care of each other. If you have been following this journal or reading my published work you might grasp that my life has been a carousel of crisis – but no matter what happens I hold on and even enjoy the ride.
Except sometimes the horses stop moving and I notice that I have been swindled in the particulars of the ticket. Without exception this requires compensation; I am an equitable sort of person, not a sucker.
The six dire years in Cambridge absolutely demanded restitution. From whoever I deemed responsible, which in this case was twofold: the company who moved us here, and the husband who accepted the job.
My price for remaining in the UK (as opposed to absconding back to Portland, or destinations unknown) was precise and simple: I required a home of my own.
Remittance. Settlement. Bribe. Not too much to ask – in fact, quite cheap, considering.
This flat is mine, and anyone who hangs out here is required to follow my rules. Including picking up their dirty laundry.