The abandoned woman had, it seemed, adapted to life as a single woman immediately, as if the alteration were of the same order as the loss of a cat. Once he had gone, my mother never had the slightest interest in discussing the adulterers, not out of jealousy or bitterness, but because she was indifferent, or so she said, and it appeared to be true. Her indifference was pure. There was no prohibition against mentioning my father, but his life was of barely more relevance to her than the life of a random man on the train. She had never been one for looking back, she frequently reminded me.
