And rain will make the flowers grow

I can't talk to you, mother. I just can't.

The very thought of exchanging words with you makes me frown in irritation.

I cannot tell you that I've recently changed my mind about affairs and infidelity. I used to tell myself that I'd leave in a heartbeat. Seeing how you dragged out a possibly quick and straightforward decision into one that lasted many years, one that involved women and children, I convinced myself that you were weak for not leaving, and that I was strong for believing otherwise.

But all is not status quo. Somehow, I'm not so convinced anymore. Strength has taken on another shade of turmeric and I don't see cheating as a crime so much as I see it as a sin now. And all sins are equal. My human hands, a roomful of educated individuals and man-made ballpoints have no authority to condemn. To lie is to flounder, to cheat is to stumble. And (I say it now but I give breath for a change in the weather) for all I'm capable of, I think I could put my walking-out shoes back into its cupboard and make the decision to stay.

And for part of that realisation, I'd like to say that my mother had a part to play. Walking out is not strength. I was wrong. Staying, that's real strength.

But damn it. I can't tell you that. I can't talk to you, mother.

I just can't.