Saturday, 20 April 2013
Tomorrow morning, I'll bake a cake. A simple, rustic one with apples in it. And I'll wait for my son to arrive on my doorstep, on his ninth birthday, to eat this cake with his friends, this not very fancy cake, made with love and cinnamon and not much culinary skill, and I'll thank the stars and the dirt and the trees for gifting me with this gentle and extraordinary boy. I'm feeling sentimental, slightly bereft, on this Birthday eve, I miss having my children with me. It is my cross to bear, a price I pay for my little freedom from domestic non bliss. It's high, this price, but I pay it as best I can, and hope its worth it.