The Confession

by Jessie Burton

truth held different qualities to a fact. It was a question of angle, where you were standing and what view you needed to see.

Most of my friends had been like me, mythical women, wax-winged. But one by one they’d become pregnant and had their children – so beautiful, all of them – and they had used the old feathers on their wings for nests. I had never felt jealous or sorrowful when the news came. I’d always felt delight and excitement – and a not insubstantial relief that this time, it wasn’t me.