One Hundred Years of Betty

by Debra Oswald

Something unendurable happens, after which it is impossible to go on, and then people go on. Well, most do. When one of us shatters into a thousand pieces, that seems the natural response to tragedy. But usually, even then, we eventually gather up our pieces and the possibility of joy and silliness and excitement is, almost inconceivably, there again.

‘Am I not trapped? I love my daughter. Even during this fortnight—which, by the way, has been the most happy time—I’ve missed Ava terribly. If we love our children, if we don’t ever want to be separated from them, that’s a kind of trap. Even if it’s a lovely

‘Honey, you bellyache and cry all you need. There’s no hierarchy of suffering. One variety of misfortune doesn’t invalidate another.’