minutes at a kitchen table.
He decided that if he told me the truth — a baby, a wedding, the whole of it — I would write back.
“You’d have written back and said something kind,” he said. “You’d have said you were happy for me. And I’d have read it about four hundred times.”
“And then one day I’d have got in the car.”
So he wrote the version that made him look like a man who had simply fallen in love with somebody else, and he added a line asking me never to contact him, and he made himself somebody I could be angry with instead of somebody I would wait for.
It was not noble and he did not call it noble. He said it was cowardice and organisation in the same sentence, and then he said: “I knew exactly what I was doing, Lornie, and I did it
