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every Christmas is a quarantine of sorts.
as if she saw right into his soul and found it wanting.
Why couldn’t she be the adult she was at work, with her family?
How unfair, she thought, walking down the passage, that some children are born to such privilege, others to shantytowns. Weyfield was a different planet to Liberia. At least there was the whiff of reality in Camden, when you chatted to the Big Issue sellers.
Had anything wrecked families, relationships, bloody normality more efficiently than the internet?
it turns out that coming home can be lonely.
But here, in the quiet of the English countryside, peace is evasive.
It was funny how, even once you had children, you never stopped needing your mother. If anything, they made you need her more.
Perhaps Falcon and her ilk cannot comprehend altruism, because they themselves are driven by nothing more than the screech of their own voices.
When she died, and left them to fend for themselves, she needed them to be each other’s family. She hoped they realised that.
Just because you’re always doing your missionary work, doesn’t mean you’re Mother Teresa. You’re so busy freaking out about the third world you don’t even notice what’s going on with your own family.’
This was why she despised secrets. When they emerged, as they always did, they opened up a whole labyrinth of other unknowns.
He drained the last of the port – it tasted of tomorrow’s headache.
Surely home shouldn’t feel so lonely?
People never understood how domesticity could be soothing.
It’s different with every child, every parent.’
being so at ease with someone was even more exquisite than the rush of a first kiss.
Perhaps every family should be quarantined together, he thought.
