The 6:41 to Paris

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I could have taken the 7:50, or even the 8:53. It’s Monday. Mondays are dead quiet at work. It’s just that I couldn’t take it anymore. What was I thinking, staying Sunday night. I don’t know what came over me. Two days are more than enough.

I didn’t sleep well at all last night, obviously. I was so annoyed with myself. Another wasted weekend. And at the same time, it was no surprise, it’s always like that. Valentine could have told me it would be. So could Luc. And I understand their perspective, but it pisses me off. That they didn’t come. That they didn’t do their bit. That they weren’t there supporting me so I could get through those two days. That they don’t care as much about my parents as I do. Which is normal. They are my parents. My very own. My only parents, and I’m their only daughter.

Every time, I swear it can’t go on like this. And then I start feeling guilty. Insidiously. I hear their voices on the phone. Never a reproach. Never a complaint. Just silence, when I say that I have a lot of work at the moment. I have to get in touch with my suppliers. I have to satisfy my clients. I can just imagine them on the other end of the line. My mother standing ramrod straight behind my father. Brittle. The grimace on her face. The scathing remark on the tip of her tongue. I wonder if there is anyone anywhere who knows how to look after elderly parents. Elderly but not yet bedridden. Just old and weak. Old and vulnerable. And bitter.

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