The Paper Palace

by Miranda Cowley Heller

The best lesson my mother ever taught me: there are two things in life you never regret—a baby and a swim.

Finn climbs out of bed in his sweet saggy underpants, rubs the sand out of his eyes. God, I love him. His cheeks have tiny sleep wrinkles on them from the pillowcase. He’s only nine—still on the verge of being a small boy. But soon he, too, will come to treat me with utter contempt. When Jack was born, I looked at the tiny baby in my arms, suckling, pig-perfect, kissed his eyelids and said, “I love you so much, and someday, no matter what I do, you will hate me. At least for a little while.” It’s a fact of life.

“I love you.” “Of course you do, you silly git.”

At night, when he gets home from the City, we build a proper fire in the fireplace, curl up together on the sofa under feather duvets while he reads aloud to me from the most boring book he can find, until I beg him to stop and make love to me instead.