Diminished

8th May 2011 Sunday

We are three sisters in a cafe sharing a big pot of mint tea, a cherry shortbread, a chocolate brownie and a bakewell slice all divided up into neat threes. My eldest sister retired on Friday - she won’t go back to work on Monday morning after more than thirty five years. She says she has lost her identity. Who is she without her role? How will they live on half their income?

My husband says he knows what she feels like. His empty Monday morning will come in seven weeks time.

I didn’t think I’d be retiring too; didn’t see how my identity is all tangled up with his; didn’t see it coming - feeling this diminished, this flayed raw, this unexpected shame - a wine-stain birthmark on my face.