I haven’t told anyone that I have started the fertility drugs except your Uncle G because I work for him and because he bears the brunt of my unhappiness. He is a good man and I know that if anything ever happened to me he would take good care of you.
But nothing is going to happen to me. It can’t. The other day when I was crying it occurred to me that once I have you there will be no longer be a place for thoughts of death; once I have you I can no longer wish to die because … well, because there will be you.
And already, since I began writing these letters to you, since I cried out all my sadness, I have felt the cloud of my depression lifting.
I stopped writing three years ago. For three years I have wandered lost in the wilderness unable to find my voice and it is only since I started writing these letters – first to your cousin, and now to you – that I have come to realise that I have always written for someone, that my writing is an ongoing conversation with a muse that runs through my head, and that no-one has inspired me all this time.
You inspire me.
You give my life meaning.
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