I hate being a good woman. I hate being a good wife. I hate that it’s all I can do, that it’s all I know, that it’s all I can ever be. Every da... is another regret. Every night is another fantasy of escape. Each time I leave my house, even if it’s just a visit to the grocery store or coffee shop, I cry at the thought of returning home. Panic takes my body. My heart feels like a bird who beats its wings against its cage. My heavy limbs drag me back, always back. It takes every ounce of strength. We travelled in a taxi to the event and paid the driver before entering the hall and throng of people that were there. Having gotten them both a drink I sat alongside Carol and smiled at her. Paul a friend from my unit and the same age but a little taller than me and similarly built was first on the scene as he made his way towards our table. I could see instantly that Paul’s eyes seemed to be stuck on my wife’s fabulous breasts but that didn’t bother me at all. Paul had been divorced a few. More

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