The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

outside, my boy seems perfectly well adjusted, but sometimes I feel like I’m just waiting for the emergence of all the ways in which we screwed him up. Every time he’s angry, sad, anxious, disengaged, I’m always searching for a deeper meaning behind it. Is that our fault? Did we damage him? Surely, it’s got to come out at some point.

I close my eyes and try to drag some more air into my lungs, but it’s like my ribs are contracting, squeezing the breath out of me. Luckily, I know that my sister only requires minimal input from me at the best of times.

“Hi,” I say into the phone.

“Hi, listen I saw Dad today and he was in a pretty bad way, I just thought you should know. He kept going on about how he hasn’t seen you in years, and he was getting quite upset and angry about it. And he was saying all this weird stuff about how he should never have lied to you—”

“What am I meant to do about it, Laura?” My tone is blunter than intended, but I can’t be dealing with this right now. I need space. I need air. And I need to get the kids out the door before this damn thing overwhelms me and I end up ruining Josh’s evening.

“I don’t expect you to do anything about it, Jay, I’m just letting you know. It was pretty difficult to deal with, okay? So I’m just telling you because I thought that was the idea, that we keep each other up to date with what’s happening, or is that not what we’re meant to be doing, because—”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” I lie. I just need her gone. On another evening I might be tempted to ask her why the hell she feels the need to tell me all the stuff my dad says. It just makes me feel miserable and it’s not like anything’s ever going to change. But then that’s always been the difference between me and Laura; I keep my pain to myself, she tends to expel it onto other people.

“Anyway, that’s not even really what I wanted to talk to you about. My car’s still doing that thing, so can I bring it over on Monday after work for you to have a look…”

I move towards the doorway, Laura a grating noise in my ear, and discreetly watch the kids, who have finished their cake and moved into the hallway. They’re next to the front door, pulling on shoes. Seven pairs of legs all in skinny jeans. Jasinda and Amelia put their arms around Josh and all three of them hold their phones in the air and snap a selfie as they pull funny faces.

My son’s a nice-looking boy, perhaps a little too slender, but broadening slightly at the shoulders now, a side-parting that makes me worry about the way he holds his neck at an angle in an attempt to keep his hair out of one eye. I don’t think it can be good for posture. His skin is fairer than mine, his hair a lighter shade of brown; his mother’s genes fighting for their half of him. At least she staked her claim to him on some level.

I hear the toilet flush and Chloe comes out of the bathroom. Josh picks her pink hoodie off the peg by the door, shoves it clumsily at her. They exchange a few words, laugh. They’ve known each other since they were small, and although Josh denies there’s anything between them, I’m certain he’s either lying or in denial. I see it in their body language, the way they interact. It might have been some time ago, but I remember teenage love all too well.

Chloe takes a strand of her blonde hair, sniffs it, then holds it out for Josh. He sniffs it, too. He tugs at his own fringe before figuring out that it’s just too short to reach his nose, so instead Chloe sniffs it for him. I have no idea what they’re doing, but Chloe looks impressed and wraps her arms around his neck. Without missing a beat, he puts his arms around her waist and they stand there hugging, while their friends laugh and jostle around them. I remember the feeling so clearly it scares me; the newness of it all, despite having known each other for years, the uncertainty, the first tentative kisses, the early thrill of skin on skin. And later, those all-important words – I love you. The promises – we’ll always be together. My breath catches in my throat, ever tighter, and I close my eyes, wishing away the memories that have been plaguing me recently.

“We’re just friends,” he tells me time and time again. He even gets quite irate about it. And so I let it drop, and I stop the teasing and the jibes because I can see I’m pushing my luck. But that’s how it started for me, too. We were just friends. And then one day, we weren’t.

I watch them sometimes, snuggled close on our sofa, whispering and teasing each other, or having conversations that look deeper and more meaningful than anything Josh and I ever seem to manage, and I wonder if he’s ever going to be brave enough to make a move. I keep my mouth shut, but what I really want to say to him is, “I had that once. That total comfort and ease, the way you look at each other, how happy you are when you’re together, the way she makes you laugh. It’s rarer than you would imagine. Tell her how you feel, and when you’ve done that, learn from my mistakes – don’t be stupid enough to let her go. Because even at fifteen you can have the greatest love of your life.” My mind floods with all the things Josh would say to me if I gave him that speech. All of them are pretty offensive.

“…I don’t even know why I took