episode 1

TW: Grief

We lie, wide awake, spooning in bed and listen with frustrated envy to our younger

neighbours putting their mattress to work on the other side of the wall. It's not lost on me

how ironic it is that their lovemaking intrudes on our own. The sounds are so distracting

that I feel physically exhausted just listening and suddenly the wild night we'd both

planned doesn't feel so appealing anymore.

"Im sorry" I sigh hugging Santi's arms wrapped around my soft middle, "I just...can't. Not

with that in the background."

Santi's chin nudges my tensed shoulder with understanding. He yawns unexpectedly and

we both start to giggle.

"They're like rabbits" He sniggers. And then adds: Do you think she's pregnant yet? His

question is totally innocent, of course. I know he means no harm. But it stings all the

same.

I draw in a sharp breath, willing myself to get a grip and not get emotional. But Santi feels

it, he realises his mistake. And without words, he immediately pulls me in deeper, close

enough for me to feel his steady heart against my bareback.

"One day" his promise is a whisper, a gentle breeze through my hair.

"Yes" I sigh sadly and allow my disheartened chest to rise and fall in time with his.

I guide his hands from my middle up to my own heart until his warm reassuring touch

calms it down again. We somehow, despite the racket, fall asleep and remain rooted to

each other all night. Because when I wake up the next morning, Santi and I are still

entwined - yet our double bed has remarkably shifted several inches away from the wall.

I met Santi nine years ago. I was a student graduating three years late. I had almost

stopped believing it would finally happen, the road to recovery had been far from smooth

or timely.

The psychologist had always told us it would take time.

"It's a process," she used to tell us over and over again until I got sick and tired of seeing

her rosy withered face every week and stopped going to her sessions the year I became

an adult and could choose my own path.

My sister, however, didn't follow me out of Dr Marion's office that day. I can't quite believe

that it's been over twenty years since she entered our lives. I can't quite believe it's been

over twenty years since that fateful day when everything changed forever.

I told Santi about my parents on our second date. I knew, from the moment I spotted him

bolting out of his taxi to avoid the rainstorm and arriving apologetically shielding a

beautiful bouquet of flowers like a mother hen shields her chicks that he was going to be

in my life forever.

I wanted the man I could envision spending my days with to know everything about me,

including that very detail that had chased away many in the past. If he truly wanted me,

he had to know about the baggage I was still carrying, the things I was still navigating.

When we met nine years ago, my life was just beginning again. It had been on pause since

that fateful day when my sister and I lost our parents.

I had been so nervous to tell him, afraid I would lose the first potentially good thing in

years. But Santi had istened. And when I had shared everything, he quietly took my hand

and told me how fortunate he felt and would love to meet the other piece of my

complicating puzzle, my sister.

I will never forget how my sister had sat at the furthest table at our wedding, alone with

the other bridesmaids' handbags and high heels, watching us all dance and cheer. I had

made sure to catch her eye as Santi spun me around during our first dance waltz, just so

she knew I was still with her, that I was always thinking of her. But she just stared back at

me, her eyes were glazed and troubled. Dr Marion had insisted she attend my wedding.

"Good for the process," she had advised. But how much longer did this "process" go

on? Should a woman still be as broken after all these years?...

Santi and I had made some crucial wedding decisions. We completely avoided having our

to be continued.

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