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“You’re a grown-up,” Margot said. “You’re pregnant!” “Fourteen-year-olds get pregnant. You’re engaged and you own a house.”
but Piglet did not know how to look at her, her friend, who seemed to belong to her less and less: someone else’s wife, someone else’s mother.
The feeling of lightness in her limbs, the thrill at asking for what she had wanted, had gone, replaced by a heavy self-consciousness.
On the morning of her wedding, Piglet awoke in the dark, curtains closed, to the feeling of Christmas, to the feeling of a funeral.
How to say that she had built a life that relied on the mirrors of others?
the creeping realisation that really, really, they had made their vows in the pursuit of living a life that looked good rather than felt good.
