Fault Lines

by Emily Itami

Sometimes, living in the world created by my children, knowing them better than I know myself but still finding them baffling, I feel like the rest of the world is nothing but shifting sands around me.

sorting the washing, trying to remember if this is what I signed up for. There are girls out there who would love this. They would fold the corners of the towels over like a daring ankle peeping out beneath a dress and make sure the potpourri in the entrance hall was always fresh. Why didn’t he marry one of them? He comes in glued, again, to his phone. Tatsu with his emails and me with the laundry. Groundhog Day.

I’m in a cage without bars and I’m screaming but nobody can hear. I’m not even middle-aged yet and he’s faded me into the background.

“I’m finishing the dishes.” After all the years I’ve spent with him not seeing me, I don’t see him anymore either. We exist like two blind fish, sliding past each other cordially in our parallel universes. It’s a great solution.