Just saw this as well over on Bluesky and checked to see if it had already been posted here (I love Tildes’ speed on new posts sometimes). What an, I don’t even know the words for it… powerful story.
Just saw this as well over on Bluesky and checked to see if it had already been posted here (I love Tildes’ speed on new posts sometimes). What an, I don’t even know the words for it… powerful story.
That ending paragraph. Chills he wasted his entire life, my mom said to me, the evening we found the love letters. his entire life, and mine as well. The author didn't write too much about her own...
That ending paragraph. Chills
he wasted his entire life, my mom said to me, the evening we found the love letters. his entire life, and mine as well.
The author didn't write too much about her own sense of betrayal or if she feels any anger. Probably her feelings are more complex because she is a gay herself and understand more of struggle.
But speaking only as a child, I would be completely seething with rage inconsolable. No disrespect for author's father, the feelings below are towards my own father; in my story, my mom died young and never got to experience freedom, whereas my father continued to fuck around like he had done for decades, until his health fails, and now he confides in me and extracts emotional support the way he has always done.
I will be angry forever. For my mom, for myself, and my sibling. That he didn't sort out his own shit, that he was a coward who lived by allowing others to bear his own pain from anxieties, and for having the audacity to live joyfully outside but not to share with us.
I had been cordial to at least one of my Edwards for his sake. I would be cordial to my Edwards when my dad dies; they deserve closure, and if they appear to still grieve knowing there's no money in it for them anymore, I will move past my cynicism into kindness and appreciation. I would appreciate the opportunity to share stories, mark anniversaries together; I would be glad to gift keepsakes, and I would ask if they have any preferences for remaining artifacts and stick my neck out to try to get them into my half to pass onto them. Certainly there will be nameless Edwards who might come out of the woodwork later; I shall strive to remember to keep extra items for them. If they wish, they will forever have a friend in me. I would also feel pity, because my Edwards would never have recieved the promises, however long my father lived; they would never be legitimized, because my father is a selfish coward who prioritizes his security and joy while choosing to ignore the suffering of both spouse and affair partners, prolonging them with sweet nothings and extracting sympathies with how torn he feels if only I could but I can never for my children's sake blah blah blah bullshit.
But for my own part, I will live on in anger towards a selfish man who hurt others without remorse. Remorse, having found love and music and wine finally, would have looked like an apology, setting mom free, and offering genuine friendship in Hagen daz, city explorations, and nice shoes. This has nothing to do with being gay. It's about decency.
From an ultra short story by Margaret Atwood, Happy Ending (fulltext pdf):
[...]Mary is hurt.
Her friends tell her they've seen him in a restaurant with another woman, whose name is Madge. It's not even Madge that finally gets to Mary: it's the restaurant. John has never taken Mary to a restaurant.
That a father is absent, austere, and silent, I can forgive. That he is only like that with us, I could never.
If I were the author's mother, I would fight for the ownership of the ashes. Not that I'd want them in my house.
Curious about Style. Why did the author choose "no caps"?
Just saw this as well over on Bluesky and checked to see if it had already been posted here (I love Tildes’ speed on new posts sometimes). What an, I don’t even know the words for it… powerful story.
That ending paragraph. Chills
he wasted his entire life, my mom said to me, the evening we found the love letters. his entire life, and mine as well.The author didn't write too much about her own sense of betrayal or if she feels any anger. Probably her feelings are more complex because she is a gay herself and understand more of struggle.
But speaking only as a child, I would be completely seething with rage inconsolable. No disrespect for author's father, the feelings below are towards my own father; in my story, my mom died young and never got to experience freedom, whereas my father continued to fuck around like he had done for decades, until his health fails, and now he confides in me and extracts emotional support the way he has always done.
I will be angry forever. For my mom, for myself, and my sibling. That he didn't sort out his own shit, that he was a coward who lived by allowing others to bear his own pain from anxieties, and for having the audacity to live joyfully outside but not to share with us.
I had been cordial to at least one of my Edwards for his sake. I would be cordial to my Edwards when my dad dies; they deserve closure, and if they appear to still grieve knowing there's no money in it for them anymore, I will move past my cynicism into kindness and appreciation. I would appreciate the opportunity to share stories, mark anniversaries together; I would be glad to gift keepsakes, and I would ask if they have any preferences for remaining artifacts and stick my neck out to try to get them into my half to pass onto them. Certainly there will be nameless Edwards who might come out of the woodwork later; I shall strive to remember to keep extra items for them. If they wish, they will forever have a friend in me. I would also feel pity, because my Edwards would never have recieved the promises, however long my father lived; they would never be legitimized, because my father is a selfish coward who prioritizes his security and joy while choosing to ignore the suffering of both spouse and affair partners, prolonging them with sweet nothings and extracting sympathies with how torn he feels if only I could but I can never for my children's sake blah blah blah bullshit.
But for my own part, I will live on in anger towards a selfish man who hurt others without remorse. Remorse, having found love and music and wine finally, would have looked like an apology, setting mom free, and offering genuine friendship in Hagen daz, city explorations, and nice shoes. This has nothing to do with being gay. It's about decency.
From an ultra short story by Margaret Atwood, Happy Ending (fulltext pdf):
That a father is absent, austere, and silent, I can forgive. That he is only like that with us, I could never.
If I were the author's mother, I would fight for the ownership of the ashes. Not that I'd want them in my house.
Curious about Style. Why did the author choose "no caps"?
Edit: pronouns