Chapter 1

    Expect the unexpected! However, the moment we expect something, it is no longer ‘unexpected’, therefore, I thought the phrase meant: Think of everything. And, I thought I did. I thought I had every scenario covered. I was wrong.

    My name is Sara. I’m struggling to cope with my failed divorce.

    For fourteen years I’ve lived a lie. The truth may have set him free, but… The four words chained into a simple sentence that he should have said much earlier have me imprisoned.

    I met my ex-husband, or husband, eighteen years ago. We got married two years later and divorced two years after that. A month after I left him I found out I was pregnant, with triplets. Children are not a good reason to stay married; in fact, I’ve known more than a few couples who should have got divorce because of the children – so this wasn’t going to change my mind. However, I knew that meant I could never get him out of my life. This made getting him out of my heart much harder. I remember trying to forget everything about him. I don’t know when, but at some point I must have accomplished it. Because, now that I know what I didn’t know yesterday, all these emotions are surfacing from some place though I can’t picture the images they seem to want to create. As if in the foggy alleys of my memory lies the answer I must find.

    I was a young girl when we met; seventeen year old refugee in Turkey, comparing people to seas. On the surface they all look pretty much the same – glistening in sunlight, turbulent in storms. And, until we sail them we have no idea how deep they are. Until we dive in, we can not know what world they hide within. Now, I think of life as a sea. Perhaps it is not too far off; perhaps people are our life. And I thought I was sailing my life on the best built ship. Little did I know that the name of my ship was: Titanic. While I thought I was sailing safely through life, the inevitable iceberg was up ahead. How was I supposed to know it? Demir and I were married just long enough to build this house I live in with our three daughters. We celebrated their fourteenth birthday yesterday. Today, just before noon, they left with their father for their annual holiday in Turkey. I’m expecting a call any moment to tell me they have arrived safely, as they always do; hopefully, this time won’t be any different.

    Sofia, the youngest of the three, will proceed to tell me about the gifts their paternal family bought and left for them, equally excited by every item. Then she will go into details about their plans, which they made on the flight there. She’ll say ‘they made’, but the truth is, Leila, the middle child, knows what appeals to Sofia, so she will present her ideas and wishes in a way Sofia would like, and Nadia, the eldest, will smile at Leila’s craftiness and will agree, because that’s what she always does. So in reality, girls will be doing what Leila planned. This plan I have figured out weeks ago from hints Leila kept dropping: few days, perhaps a week in Istanbul just to see what’s new in the city, revisit some favourite spots, do some shopping (Leila will want books, souvenirs, Sofia will want shoes, bags, Nadia will divide the time so they both get what they want without arguments), a boat ride down Bosphorus is a must at least once per visit, and, of course, lunch and coffee always by the water. After Istanbul they will go to the beach for much needed (or so they claim) rest and tan. I don’t know how long they’ll stay there, but no more than three weeks, I would imagine. After that, Turkey is their oyster. This year Leila has her sights set on Izmir area; their aunt Selma will be pleased.

    I will spend the summer with my best friend Maida, keeping in touch with my girls via internet and phone. Maida and I usually don’t have a plan let alone a booking, all we have is a car and a vague idea where we want to find ourselves, and since we both fancy lazy days on a beach, we’ll be heading south towards Croatia. Where will we end up, time will tell. Few years ago we got in the car headed for Prague, but about eighty kilometres down the road we turned right instead of left, and kept going all the way to Minsk. I don’t know why we didn’t fix our error by returning to the road that leads to Prague, but we didn’t.

    Maida and I have known each other since childhood, when we played on the same playgrounds. Then we were in the same class in high school. She became irreplaceable in my life on the coach out of war-stricken Bosnia to refuge in Turkey. We were both teenage girls, leaving our families and all we know to disaster, while we head to an unknown world, unsure what we will find there or if we will ever return.

    Our fates were very different in Turkey; mine prospered in relationships, hers in education. However, in the background we shared the same burdens that neither could nor needed to define to the other; there was silent understanding worth more than anything in the world. Through our time together and time apart I grew to love her and trust her love for me. I have no doubt I annoy her at least as much as she annoys me, but even her annoyances are something I treasure and hold close to my heart.

    Maida works in a school, so her summers are as free as mine. Often, when I think of her, or more specifically, when I compare my life and hers, I can’t help but wonder about fate and the role it plays in our lives. I returned to Bosnia almost as soon as the war was over, just after I was married. My ex-husband was eager to meet my family and my mother took to him as if he was her own son; there were even times when I thought she likes him more than she likes me, which wouldn’t be surprising, he’s the sort that everyone likes, the people’s person, the jolly fellow, Santa Close with six-pack in place of a bowl full of jelly, in an Armani suit and silk tie, successful yet down to earth, curious yet non judgemental, responsible about others, adventurous about himself, with a great sense of humour. It is unfortunate good person doesn’t make a good husband.

    As soon as my mother mentioned that I own a plot of land my father left to me as a gift rather than inheritance (my father believed that his son should be able to find his way in the ‘man’s world’, while his little girl might need a little more support), my ex-husband decided we should build a house. The design for our house in Turkey, which we were planning to build near Izmir, was already completed, but instead of building it in Izmir, we built it on a hill near Zenica. The architect seemed pleased and excited when we informed him of the change and came to investigate the site with so much enthusiasm I worried that perhaps he didn’t understand we meant Bosnia and not some rich, developed, famous country.

    Permissions were a breeze since the house was built on my land, in my name, in a re-building era; back then it seemed social motto was ‘build, build, build’, the mistakes of that are only too obvious now with random structures scattered about like toys in a nursery that haven’t been cleared in days.

    Only a year later, we came to Bosnia and stayed on our own (no builders, gardeners, surveyors, decorators), in our own house. My mother arranged our furniture and I wasn’t too pleased about that, even though I thought she did a very good job; I felt like it took away from my sovereignty. Three wilful daughters have changed me in this respect – there is very little a woman can do when she returns home to find the living room rearrange and three pairs of glowing eyes pleading we keep it that way, at least for a while. And when you let it happen once, in one room, it becomes a free season all year round, in every room.

    Maida returned to Bosnia just before I came to stay in my new house. She graduated from university and came back to look for a job and settle down. She claimed that she was ‘rebuilding a new life’ – there wasn’t much left of the old life to try and rebuild it, yet out of respect for the little of the old life that was there she couldn’t say she was building a whole new life, but rather rebuilding a new life. I listened and watched her with longing as a premonition of our future played in my mind. She was going to live in Bosnia and I was going to stay in Turkey, which one of us moved was hard to tell, but I was sure that in time the distance would tear us apart and at some point, some random moment chosen by God knows what, we’d bump into one another in a park, or on a street or some other random place and I’d meet her husband and children and we’ll smile at one another, no longer understanding each other the way we used to. I’m pleased that was false.

    It is funny. Back then, when I had that false premonition, I thought I’d look for relief in my husband, his family and the friends I made in Turkey. I hoped they’d fill the void and in time I won’t miss Maida. All that turned upside-down when I found out about my husband’s affair.

    It was a sunny morning in October after a wet night; it rained poetically, as Maida would put it. Morning brought some unsung glory, turning the tears of the Heaven into nature’s regalia. As I stepped outside, the air felt light, begging to be inhaled. I drew it into my body with as much force as I could gather, letting it poses every atom of my being. I felt as if I was about to fly when a neighbour looked at me solemnly and said “I’m sorry dear. How are you holding up?” She looked as if she was about to cry. Panic. Fear. Confusion. My body tensed up in a second. Back then I feared anything good that happens to me. Life was a sequence of hardships and tragedies, with few and brief moments of bliss. But how would this woman know before me? ‘She must be mistaken’ I thought, force a smile and said “What do you mean?” She took my hand, shook her head and left. I watched her until she was out of sight and then made my way to the shop, perplexed. It didn’t help that people were looking at me and most windows of the surrounding buildings framed a sad face. Something wasn’t right.

    Hasan, the owner of Muba grocery store, stood outside shouting at a newspaper van “You get that away from here! You hear! All lies!”

    “Hasan.” I said to get his attention “What’s going on?” Hasan stood frozen, looking at me as if I was a ghost, seemingly wishing to hide. I began to wonder if that was the problem; did I die and I didn’t know it? Retrospectively, that thought was stupid, however, back then, it seemed completely plausible.

    Hasan went in and I followed him to the counter, he went further but I stopped. For a moment, I was alone in the shaded shop, surrounded by boxes of fruit, shelves stocked with various products peeping over them. A young woman walked in with a newspaper in her hand, looking and walking towards me. It was clear she didn’t come to buy something, but to see me. “I think you better see this.” She said showing me the paper. There was a picture of my husband kissing his former girlfriend, a model named Irma. The headline read ‘Demir and Irma together again, what does this mean?’ It is a strange feeling to have your worst nightmare come true; a combination of relief that the expected has finally happened and disappointment that it has happened. I was prepared for something like that from the very beginning. I knew exactly what I had to do: Leave him.

    One thing I should say about me before I go on is that I do not tolerate, excuse or forgive adultery. It’s a question of principle. It is the way I am and the way I’ve always been; or at least since my uncle cheated on my aunt when I was seven. She was devastated. At first there was a lot of shouting. I particularly remember when she screamed at my mother “I refuse to share my bed with a whore”. Soon after that, she went quite. She hardly spoke at all. Moving about like a ghost, her eyes clouded, her smiles fake. I promised my self I would never let a man do that to me. Well…

    Back in the Muba grocery store, I couldn’t stop staring at the image on the front page of the newspaper. It was mesmerising. Some force greater than myself attracted me to it. I couldn’t stop staring. People get like that when they are witnessing a disaster.

    I felt a warm arm slide around my neck and over my shoulder, a forehead touched my cheek, hair got in my eyes; I surrendered to it all, what difference does it make? Aisha, Hasan’s wife, stormed out the back door, around the counter, snatched the image away from my eyes, tore it shouting various kinds of abuse, disrupting my ‘peace-before-the-storm’ and turned it into a battlefield. What was she fighting for? Or against? My husband chose another woman, a woman I expected him to choose, a woman I couldn’t believe I replaced. You can’t force someone to love you, and if he doesn’t love me, I didn’t want him. I only wanted him as long as he made me believe his heart belongs to me and that he would never hurt me. That was all gone and there was no way to get it back. And I was never one to settle for something incomplete, untrue, fake. It was over. There was nothing to fight for.

    She must have noticed my resigned state; she stopped shouting, grabbed me away from my gentle comforter and pulled me into her soft, large bosom and powerful embrace. I waited for her to release me and as she did she said: “Come up. I’ll make you some tea.” I shook my head, unable to look her in the eyes and walked out with a wave.

    I walked back to the apartment briskly with my head down. Tears started to slide down my cheeks; it was the only time in my life that I cried without fighting it or feeling it. My eyes did not feel strained but relieved; as if those tears were reserved for very long, they got tired of waiting for the gates to be opened, and, as the gats were flung, tears were free to come out.

    Inside the building another neighbour whispered something on the stairway, it was irrelevant to me; I was on a mission to collect my things and leave.

    There wasn’t much to collect in terms of belongings since I didn’t want to take anything he gave me, I only took my passport, some items I had from my life before him and a box with all my savings. The lightness of the bag hanging off my shoulder compensated for the burden that began to gather in my heart. As I walked through the door of my marital home, living the scene that often played in my mind during the darkest of moments, another neighbour shouted from across the hall “You shouldn’t listen to this!” violently shaking a different newspaper.

“May I have that?” I said. The words struggled to leave my mouth. The neighbour stood puzzled as he handed me the paper. I went back into the apartment, took a note pad, wrote a note (I no longer remember what I wrote, but it was very short), opened the newspaper on the double-page feature of photographs of my husband and his former girlfriend slash current lover, laid it on our bed, placed the note and my rings on top of it. It gave me a much needed relief, like cold water on burned skin. I guess it was a conclusion of sorts, like a goodbye, or a full stop at the end of a sentence. There were times when I wished I took a closer look at those images, but I didn’t; I denied myself the torment, believing it was wiser that way.

    Taxi ride to the airport was uneventful since, I guess, the taxi driver hadn’t seen the newspapers that day. He recognised me and asked if I was ‘Sara Gazie’. I smiled and nodded, thinking ‘not for much longer’. I expected him to go on how he is a fan, how my husband is such a great man and how I’ve made him better, how his wife loves our story, so on and so forth; comments I’ve heard hundreds of times. But, it seemed my driver was too tired, perhaps just off the night shift. I was pleased.

    Last minute air travel was expensive, but at least there was a flight from Istanbul to Sarajevo within hours. One-way was more expensive than return, so I purchased a return ticket even though I had no intention of using it. That bothered me for number of reasons: I wanted it to be over, and I hate wasting anything even if it was free. The thought of giving it to someone else crossed my mind and that was the only reason why I didn’t put the ticket in the bin right after I got my boarding pass. I was certain I wouldn’t go back to Turkey for years, until I feel ready, and, even then, only as a tourist. Fate had a different plan.

    Only a month after the affair, I had to return to Turkey to finalise my divorce and tell Demir I was pregnant. He didn’t even try to change my mind. Only once he lifted his gaze at me and whispered “Is there anything I could say or do…” the sentence seem to dwindle on into some silent mystery as if he felt there was more but couldn’t articulate it. “Nothing worth saying, and you’ve already done more than enough.” I said coldly.

    At some point I thought back to my time at the airport. It was past two o’clock in the morning, the divorce was finalised, concerned parties were informed of my forthcoming offspring; I had nothing to do but wait for childbirth. I was in my kitchen dipping gherkins into a jar of chocolate spread, enjoying them like they were the best food in the world, rubbing my round stomach that stretched ahead of me so I couldn’t see my feet without lifting my leg or using a mirror, when I had a flashback of my time at the airport. How odd was it that I didn’t hope for Demir to materialise remorseful, regretful, perhaps even crying, to beg for my forgiveness and understanding? Wouldn’t this be normal expectation for a woman in my position, even if she knows she wouldn’t forgive or understand? Don’t we all expect to be asked? But the thought never crossed my mind. I don’t know why. I just began to cry; back then it didn’t take much to make me weep with deep sorrow or joy, my emotions were up and down like a polystyrene foam board on high waves. My mother came downstairs to find me sitting on the floor in my nightdress, leaning on the kitchen unit, with half a chocolate gherkin in one hand, wiping my face with the sleeve of the other hand which held a jar of chocolate spread. With my mouth full and my hair stuck to my wet cheeks I said “I’m fine.”

“I know darling.” She helped me up and led me to a chair. After we sat down she wiped my face with her thumb, tips of her fingers touching my ear, her expression sympathetic “When I was pregnant with you, I had the worst craving for tomato salads with jam dressing.” She said “Yes, yes, I’d chop some tomatoes and onions and then cover them generously with strawberry jam. Had to be strawberry for some reason.” She appeared distant as if trying to remember the time to decode the enigma.

“That sounds yak.” I said. She smiled glancing at my gherkin. “Oh. This? This is delicious. Do you want some?”

“No! No, thank you.” She said moving fiercely away from my hand. I accepted her rejection without defiance and continued to munch. “Do you think he ever loved me or was it all just a charade?” The words came out effortlessly yet they hit her like a knife.

She bit her lower lip and said “I’m sure he loved you. Now let’s get you to bed.”

    I wonder if she ever forgave me for asking her this, or did she see it as a sign of my openness with her? This is not the sort of question we should ask our mothers, I know that now. God created best friends for enquiries of this sort. Although, to be honest, when I found out I was having triplets, my mother handled the news much better than Maida who panicked and asked over and over “How are you going to handle this?” grabbing her head, my shoulders, turning around like a headless chicken. My mother firmly responded “She’ll be fine and I’ll be here to see to it.” My mother is my rock; I wouldn’t be here without her; not only in terms that I wouldn’t exist (some other woman might have given birth to me) but in terms of my position in life and particularly my relationship with my girls, who are everything to me.

    Maida came round to the idea of triples eventually, I believe it was when she went shopping for baby things “It is so cool that you are having three, cause there is no way I could decide what to get and what to leave in the shop.” She said with her arms stretched down to the weight of the bags she was carrying.

“What is all that?” I said.

“There is more.” She dropped her load and turned to the car “Plus, I’ve order them t-shirts with ‘I (heart) Aunt Maida bestest’. It could barely fit, but I don’t care. I’m gona have pictures.” She clapped her hands. I expected her excitement to fade away over time, but it hasn’t. She is determined to live vicariously through the girls, getting them all the latest in fashion and all the ‘cute things money can buy’; all the things we missed out on during our ‘donkey’s years’ either because of the pre-war economic crisis, or war-time economic breakdown, or post-war economic deficiencies.

    I don’t think my girls could have had a better aunt if I had a sister; Maida’s home is decorated with five images of her with her family, and twenty plus pictures of her and the girls – from the photo in the hospital right after they were born, to the photo of the ‘I (heart) Aunt Maida bestest’ when the girls were about two months old, to various birthdays, celebrations, picnics and such. They each have a key to Maida’s apartment – in case they want to run away from home they should have a place they can run to, apparently. I hope non of my girls want to run away, ever, but it is nice to have the safety net just in case; no mother can ever predict what idea her kids will come up with, and I always believed a good mother, or parent, covers as many possibilities as they can.

    I think the possibility of the girls running away from home is zero or, in worst case scenario, close to zero (there is more chance all three will take off than only one or two; I believe). Their problems are all to do with hair, skin and a boy who didn’t smile the way he was supposed to, and finding out why Demir and I got divorced.

    I know one day they should find out what happened and I’ve spend years trying to predict what kind of effect this will have on them. I want them to be old enough to see it and not just feel it; if they only feel it, they will definitely lose faith in their father and perhaps men in general. I don’t want that. In my dream world they will see his betrayal as his weakness and nothing more. I’ve raised them to believe that no human is perfect, we all have our flaws, and we must accept that; see the virtue, humble the vice. He’s been a great father to them and they must remember that always.

    Even as a husband, he wasn’t bad. He just needed a different woman, a woman who wouldn’t be quite so opposed to sharing him. I just never believed any man could handle two hearts equally and I always believed women give their heart to the man they are in a relationship with, so a man who was in a relationship with two women, would have two hearts of two different women and he was bound to let one of them down, if not both. So, for me, the disappointment came as soon as the man I was in relationship with went to another woman. Plus, I couldn’t be with a man who didn’t appreciate that he was so precious to me, I didn’t want to share him – who shares the one thing that is most precious to them; if you are willing to share it, than it must not be that important. And then, of course, I couldn’t stand the torment of comparing myself to her. The psychological torture that creeps in and leaps up on you when everything else has enough sense to go quite to give you some rest.

    All in all, even if the reports were wrong and he was truthful that it was just that once, the trust and understanding (which was perhaps never there, but I believed it was) was gone. We were no longer partners – when I gave my heart to him, I believed it was in exchange for his heart. Once he went to her, she took at least a piece of his heart, which left me short. I wanted my whole heart back from him. It’s only reasonable.

    Though, I don’t think my girls will ever judge me for leaving him, even if the reason was a ‘one-night-stand’. Their romanticised vision of relationships is still unadulterated, so it’s ‘one strike and you’re out’, and they support each other in this just the way Maida supported me “You can’t stop him doing what he wants, but you can stop him doing it to you” she’d say.

    Yesterday, when the whole family came together for the barbeque in celebration of girls’ birthday, I pulled Demir into the kitchen for a chat about telling the girls why we got divorced. I think they should learn the truth by the time they turn sixteen, seems like a good age to me and they are quite mature, so this would give us two more years to lay the foundation, prepare them as much as possible.

    While I was presenting my idea to Demir, how we should use as many opportunities to introduce girls to men who have done the sort of thing Demir did, but who still turned out good and ‘noble’ (I didn’t believe myself, but this wasn’t about me, it was about the girls and so long as they don’t feel like tone of bricks was dumped on them when we tell them, then I’m fine. Plus, it’s not as if there is a shortage of men who cheat on their wives and are still ‘advertised’ as ‘good’). While I spoke, Demir kept rubbing the back of his neck with his whole palm, clearly nervous. I didn’t think much of it; I’d be nervous too if I had to tell the girls some truth like that about me. Then he said “So, truth about our divorce?”

“Yes, I think we should tell them, we’ve been very lucky so far that they haven’t found out in some other way.” I said.

“Truth about our divorce?” Demir repeated as some sort of enigma.

“I know this isn’t easy for you…”

“Yeah, it’s not…” he interrupted making his sentence sound like it wasn’t finished, yet it should have been; that sentence should have had a loud and clear full stop at the end. “There’s a… err… something…” I didn’t know what to think so I silently waited for him to articulate himself. “I need to… err…” he never had such a problem getting his words out. I was beginning to feel uneasy. “Well, it’s like this… The main truth about our divorce, which I should have told you before, I know…” this was going in a direction I didn’t even know existed, and I was no longer silent by choice but by complete lack of thought or word or anything “The simple truth is: We are not divorced.” I laughed at first, but the goofy look on his face, which he had a habit of wearing whenever he did something wrong, threw me into deep wonderment; he’s not a stranger to crazy, insane things, in fact, I think he has a secret fetish for them.

“What exactly do you mean?” I asked carefully as if I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say.

Demir shrugged “What do you think I mean? I mean, we are not divorced.”

“Of course we are. We got divorced before the girls were born.” I said.

“No, we didn’t.” He shook his head. I was silent and so was he; who’s turn was it to speak? Who had more to say? I had nothing to say so it had to be him, he was supposed to speak. But since he didn’t I said “Yes we did.” What else could I say?

“No, we…”

“Stop it! What do you mean?”

“You stormed out before I signed the papers.” Silence again.

“So?”

“You never asked for the papers.”

“I never needed them. As far as Bosnia is concerned I was never married, you know that.” He shrugged again. I was very eager to have my marriage certificate, but when it came to my divorce, I didn’t care if I never saw the official paper. “Are you telling me you didn’t complete the divorce procedure?”

“Err…” He bit his lip.

Anger shot through my whole body. For the first time in my life I felt only one emotion; fury. And it happened so suddenly; in a split second I went from hypnotising effects of confusion (perhaps with a dash of curiosity and intrigue) to sheer ‘is there steam coming out of my ears, because I am about to breath fire’. “What were you thinking?” I screamed “No! No! You could not have done that! How…” I became oblivious; forgetting that there was a room full of members of our family on the other side of the door was not like me. Luckily, the girls were in the garden and couldn’t hear me, or this loss of control would have been my biggest mistake ever.   

“Technically, it’s not what I did, but what I didn’t do.” He whispered as if to calm me down and defend himself at the same time.

I fixed my eyes on him, searching my mind for words that would articulate what I felt “What was your plan?” I said eventually. “What! You were going to die believing we were married and I’ll die believing we were divorced?” That wasn’t the biggest problem. Deep down, I felt he cheated me again. The circumstances of our marriage and divorce were not ordinary; belonging to a time of war, two countries, complex bureaucracies and everything happening much too fast. 

“I was going to sign it, I just…” there was an air of blame in his expression, as if I was supposed to be more understanding, as if I was supposed to think it was cute in some way. Perhaps he expected me to believe he’d never do anything like that unless he had a valid and great reason, and I should feel this reason, which would excuse everything, even if the reason isn’t stated in plain terms. I could feel tension spreading to my skin and the wrinkle between my eyebrows getting deeper “I guess, I just, didn’t find the time.” He said and then quickly looked up “Or…”

“Time!” It was too late to take it back. “You didn’t find the time?” I couldn’t believe a statement like that could even be formed in his mind let alone make it all the way to his throat, over his tang and through his lips.  “It’s been over fourteen years!” I gestured with both my hands as if there was an invisible clock between us measuring how long we’ve been divorced.

“It’s funny how time flies…” He tried to lighten the atmosphere.

“Not that fast!” I despised his effort to trivialise or, rather, ‘caricaturise’ the problem.

“You never needed it…” He shrugged. There was an air of desperation all around him.

“What?”

“Okay. That’s not the point, I get that…”

“Do you?”

“Can you please hear me out?” He stood up straight in attempt to locate the confidant side of himself. It seemed to work; the goofy look was off his face “I know it’s dumb but, I figured, this way everybody gets what they want: you got your divorce and I got my marriage.”

“What?”

“Look. We’ve been living like a divorced couple all these years and yet we are married… You wanted a divorce, I wanted us to stay married, so you could say this is a perfect solution. A compromise, if you will.” He smiled. I didn’t reciprocate.

“What?”

“You always said every relationship needs a compromise.”

“When I asked for a divorce, did you think I did that because I wanted a relationship with you?”

“Girls made that decision for you. Once you learned you were pregnant, there was no choice; we had to have some sort of relationship.” He paused, looked away from me then back “The only sort of relationship I wanted with you is one called marriage.” He stressed the word ‘I’, the word ‘you’ and then speeded his speech for ‘one called marriage’, it sounded like there was more to it but I was in no mood for riddles. At the time, all I heard was ‘one called marriage’; was it enough that our relationship is just called marriage? How could that be enough?

“But I wanted a divorce.” I said.

“And you got it, in a way.”

“In a way? There is no ‘in a way’! You either have a divorce or you don’t.”

“Well… Clearly we’ve proven otherwise. We could teach…”

“Arrh! This has got to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done!”

“More stupid than the time…”

“Shut up!” I stormed out of the kitchen to be greeted by stares. The realisation that the whole family was there, which I should have remembered, startled me, so I paused for a moment, staring back at them as if to take a mental picture of what they look like when they are speechless, surprised, perplexed, bewildered and confused. I filed the imaged by shaking my head and then started walking to the exit.

“Sara, what happened?” my mother grabbed my arm and stopped me. I looked at her then turned to face Demir “We are still married.” I said pointing with my whole arm in his direction. Silence. If they expected my response to offer relief and clarity, they were wrong.

Demir’s mother got up “What?” she said, her hand placed at the base of her neck.

“How?” Demir’s brother said. Unlike Demir, Fatih had dark features, undeniably masculine, which, at that time, betrayed no surprise only confusion.

I shook my head. Demir moved closer. “Do you remember our divorce hearing?” he said looking at his brother, addressing the whole room. “Do you remember how we met without lawyers in the judge’s office? I told Sara she can have anything she wants, she said she just wants this house, the judge assigned alimony, she agreed to give back the whole dowry. Ali and you shook hands and called it a good deal. I said I don’t want the dowry, and then… She signed her part, gave that little speech and left. Do you remember?”

“Yeah, you were devastated.” Fatih said.

“Umm…” Demir confirmed, I couldn’t tell what.

“Hold on.” Ali, my brother got up “You told me it’ll all be sorted out?” His green eyes fixed on Demir; thick, black eyebrows demanding, posture defensive.

“I didn’t say another word.” Demir shook his head “Fatih told you that. And, he did bring me the papers, ordered me to sign them and send them back to registry. He did his part. I just… They’re still in my desk. I’m still thinking about it… Top priority, I swear.”

“Darling,” Demir’s mother sat down, tips of her fingers gently touching her forehead “this is not a good time to joke. It is very serious.” She looked up at her son, knowing his heart is pure, even when his deeds disappoint her. “You can’t stay married to a woman who doesn’t want to stay married to you.”

“Mum, I know how this looks…” Demir always had a shadow over his face when he did something to evoke his mother’s disappointment. 

“How what looks?” Sofia burst through the glass doors between the living room and the garden.

“Err…” Demir stood frozen at the sight of his blonde jewel. Her large brown eyes sparkled, her face decorated with a slight turn of her lips, her aura energetic and friendly.

Selma, Demir’s sister got up “Your dad was just talking about his outfit; it’s not appropriate for a…”

“What’s going on?” Leila, the middle girl came in, glancing around the room with her emerald eyes, preoccupied with fixing a pin in her red, curly hair.

Sofia faced her sister with a raised eyebrow “I do believe aunt Selma was just about to tell me some lame story to cover up what’s really going on.”

“Oh! Let’s hear how well she does now.” Leila smiled.

“You little…” Selma said. Leila had a natural talent for teasing and her power of perception often amazed. 

“Come on aunt Selma, that hasn’t worked for about a decade. But we do enjoy your effort.”

“Where’s Nadia?” my mother asked leaning on her chair so she could see the girls.

“Outside, with grandpa.” Leila replied. Nadia was the eldest and most reserved. At the age of eight, her appearance was already mesmerising, not because of her features (which are fine) but because of something hidden. She hated going out to be, as she put it, tormented by the stares. By the time she was nine, the problem escalated into a health concern and she was unable to sleep or even find peace within herself. There was no choice but to send her to a therapist. The whole family became accustomed to watch over her like a hawk and hide her from wondering eyes. She also played her part in protecting herself by staying in one place, usually in company of a male relative. It turned into a habit she couldn’t shake off even within the grounds of her home.

“Why don’t you girls help your sister and tell grandpa to come in.” Demir’s mother said.

“That serious?” Leila couldn’t hide curiosity in her tone.

“Leila…” Selma pleaded.

“Okay, okay, we’re going.”

As soon as the girls were at a safe distance I said “Would you all excuse me?” I was feeling queasy and needed to be alone. “Just make sure girls don’t hear anything. I’ll be in my room. I just need to lie down.”

“Of course.” Demir’s mother took my hand, her head slightly tilted, her eyes seemed moist. “Try not to worry; it’ll be alright.” I smiled back at her, rubbed her hand and left.

    Life can change in an instant but perception takes much longer. I’ve been living a lie and it’s going to take time and effort to accept that. It felt surreal. Everything appeared foggy as if my vision was impaired or I was dreaming. My knees shook as I tackled the stairs.

    My empty room quickly filled with echoes of Demir’s voice repeating over and over ‘We are not divorced’. Flashbacks started; memories I thought I had long forgotten. Fridge door and the little magnets we bought from every place we visited appeared in front of me, and all those we planned to get. I took off the ones I collected with Demir long ago and replaced them with ones I collected with the girls and Maida. Does he still keep his? Are the magnets I left at the house in Turkey still hanging on the fridge waiting to fulfil their destiny of evoking some happy memories; bringing the people of the house closer together by reminding them of the journeys they’ve shared? What did we share now? There is no sharing in a lie. In a lie, one person is always left out, or, as in this case, only one person was left in.

    I heard someone outside the door. Initially, I thought it was one of the girls, probably Nadia, but they would have come in, then Demir’s voice “Sara, can I come in for a moment?”

I considered saying ‘No’ but it didn’t seem like a realistic option “Yes.” I said.

    It was strange to see him in my room; like a misplaced object, a book in a fridge. He seemed quite eased by his entrance. I began to wonder about our differences; for him it was probably strange not to come into my room. Was this why he didn’t knock? Was it so strange for him to knock on the door of this room that he couldn’t even bring himself to do it?  

“There is something else you need to know…” Demir said looking at me as if afraid to look anywhere else and witness something that will haunt him.

“There’s more?” I said ignoring his fixed gaze.

“I know you’re angry…”

“I’m furious. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry in my life.”

“I know. But, please, hear me out. There are few other things you need to know.”

“Fine.”

“One, I didn’t lie to you. I mean, back then. I really met with some friends that night, she just happened to be among them. I didn’t plan for it to happen…” I raised an eyebrow “… Okay, that’s not the point. The point is, I really didn’t lie to you and I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“So, you can insult me effortlessly?”

“No. Come on. I was an idiot.”

“Was?”

“It was a mistake?”

“A mistake? Singular? Really? You think there is just one mistake there? I have to ask, which one did you notice? The one where I didn’t cross your mind? Or the one where our marriage vows meant nothing? Or… Which one?! I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. The other thing was… I couldn’t bring myself to sign the papers… five years ago I seriously considered it but they told me it was too late. We’ll have to do the procedure all over.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“And, last, but not least… You have to take back what you said in the judge’s office. You have to take that back. There is no truth to it.”

“What did I say?”

“You said you always knew you weren’t enough for me and that I talked you into believing me, trusting me, as if I thought of you as some sort of boyish challenge. How could you ever think that?” I was silent. So much has happened since then I couldn’t remember all the details “You can’t do that. You were always far more than I deserved, far more than I expected from life.” He paused “That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.” I was trying to remember. He was expecting a response and since I failed to provide one he moved towards the door. I watched him. He stopped in the doorframe, turned around holding the door ajar and said “And, just in case it isn’t clear… I’ve always loved you. I love you now, I loved you then and I will love you for as long as I live.”

    Vortex. The door was suck shut taking life and light and air. Stifled, my gaze fixed on nothing in particular; the vortex sucked everything out of me too. All I could do is make sure I was breathing. We’ve been apart for over fourteen yours, surely all the feelings have evaporated into nothing by now. Their vapour rose into the heavens, I remember the clouds. My sky has been clear of those for years, where did the tornado come from? I closed my eyes unwilling to face whatever was going on, whatever change was taking place within me. I’ve invested far too much time and effort to get over him; how could I just let him back in? Do I have a choice? Is it already too late? What should I do? Ringing sound startled me. Telephone receiver jumped to my ear and I heard my voice “Hello.”

“Oh!” Maida’s voice “That barely rang once. Plus, I didn’t expect you to answer.” she said.

“Maida! Am I glad to hear your voice.” I felt like someone opened a window and the air was back.

“That’s so sweet.” She said “Always nice to be well received, even on the phone. I wanted to wish the girls happy birthday. Are they around?”

Even when she wasn’t calling me her timing was immaculate “They’re in the garden.” I said.

“Are you alright?”

“Err… No.”

“No? What’s wrong?”

“I really need to talk to you.”

“Well, talk. I hear ya.”

“Hmm… How shall I put this? Let me start by apologising.”

“For what?”

“For lying to you.”

“You lied to me? We are still going on holiday?”

“Yes, yes… I think so.” I said wondering if I should change my plans. The idea of changing anything didn’t appeal to me at all.

“We are, or you think so?”

“Err… We are. Of course we are.”

“Phew…” Maida breathed in relief “What did you lie about?”

“Remember how I told you I was divorced?”

“I seem to recall you mentioning something along those lines, a while back though… Wait! How’s that your lie?”

“Well, it turns out, I’m not.”

“You’re not… what? Divorced?”

“Looks that way.”

“Looks that way?” Maida laughed. She must have thought I was joking “So what are you?”

“I don’t know. Married, I guess.”

“You guess? Who are you married to?”

“Demir.”

“Your ex husband Demir?”

“That’s just it, not ex, not current, just… husband?”

“Well… your life has been boringly simple for far too long; one such issue was bound to happen.”

“I’m not joking.”

“You can’t be serious, so what else is there?”

“I am serious. Demir didn’t complete the divorce procedure. We never got divorced.” I let her have the silence. I could hear her breathing on the other line.

“Are you serious?” she said eventually

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t get it.”

“The complexity you think you are facing isn’t real. In reality, the situation is quite simple: Demir and I are still married and have been since the day we said ‘I do’.”

“Oh my God! That is…”

“Unbelievable?”

“Totally. Though, I have to admit, you don’t sound that bad considering… I mean, I would be like… I don’t know. Crazy?”

“I just screamed at him, in the kitchen and everyone heard. Except girls; thank God.”

“You? Screamed? At him? And there were other people there? I don’t know how to get my head around that.”

“I just lost it. Well, the others were in the living room, so out of sight.”

“Still. For you to lose it and especially when you have guests, and it’s your kid’s birthday… You lost it! I’m glad. How did it feel?”

“It… It didn’t feel. There was no feeling. I lost it! If I had a feeling, I wouldn’t have lost it. There was just anger, but that came before, that was the reason for losing it. I don’t know. I feel like I’ve jumped out of my peaceful little life and into someone else chaos, completely unfamiliar to me. I’m trying to locate myself. You know; like when you have too much to do and you don’t know where to begin?”

“I know…” I could hear someone calling her, a faint voice in the background, could be male or female, ‘They’re waiting’ the voice said. “Hon, I have to go.” Maida sounded urgent “I’ll…”

“Don’t worry.” I interrupted “Go, go; we’ll talk later.”

“Bye babe.”

    It was out there now; saying it took it out of me and I could get some much needed distance and perspective, perhaps I could even think about something other than ‘it’. We all had plans for the summer and I’ve already promised Maida that those won’t change. There was no reason to change girls’ plans either. Besides, if I so much as suggest a change of those, there would be more questions than I could answer. So, for now at least, everything stays the same; everything but me. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again. This wasn’t like a bad hair cut and the hair will just grow again and you’ll get another shot to get it right. This was more like removing a limb – there was no way back. This must be why people don’t remove their limbs no matter how much they might not like them.

    With my steps firm, it was strange to experience my walk down the stairs as some sort of fall from grace. I was a victim tarnished by an offence of my own, an upright culprit. I had to find the right balance between defending myself from the wrong done to me and apologising for my rampant behaviour, all the while giving graceful and dignified response to any reaction they might throw my way. “I can do this.” I said to myself, inhaling deeply before I opened the door of the living room.

    And there they all were, like programmed robots timed to turn and look in my direction as I walk in, sympathetic glances and smiles all around, speech prohibited. Was it my responsibility to shutter the silence? Again? Seems it was the day for that. Someone should make personalised calendars with days like today marked in bold: 17^th June Uncharacteristic vocal exhibits. I could have prepared for it then. Instead, our calendar had ‘BBQ!!! &prezies’ in the 17^th June square, followed by ‘Happy B’day!!!’ in the 18^th June box; these are not even a clue to the way the day turned out.

“Where are the girls?” I said, my voice weak as if I was inhaling as I spoke.

“Outside, Demir is with them.” Ali replied. The sound of his name filled me with both longing and resentment; two sides of me have reached the opposite ends of some emotional spectrum, while the rest of me was stuck in the middle, hoping for a miraculous reconciliation so that we can all live together in harmony since we all share one body that has many responsibilities. 

My mother got up, stood face-to-face with me; she looked as if she was fighting the worst case of giggles “I know it seems bad, but it’s not the end of the world.” She said.

“I’m still searching for words.” Demir’s father sat in one of the armchairs “How could he not sign it?” he said looking and pointing at the carped as if the flowery motif had the answer. Then he looked up at me “How?” to an onlooker it might have appeared like he was asking me. “Did I teach him responsibility? Respect? Did I…”

“You did.” Demir’s mother comforted her husband.

The light in the living room changed as the door to the garden moved. Demir came in “Girls should be occupied for a bit.” He said smiling at me. Everything about him was different; I felt like my left eye could only see the bad, the pain, the suffering, and my right eye saw only the good, the joy, the excitement… Which one was he? Both sides had very good arguments. “So…” Demir hit just the right tone between apology and defence – I wanted to do that. I was proud and annoyed at the same time. It was just like him to effortlessly accomplish something I couldn’t, yet fail at something as easy as singing a piece of paper.

    Peaceful silence filled with discomfort in a room of relatives; disbelief mixed with a dash of excitement shared. I was compartmentalising different elements of the situation: emotions on one side, tangibles on the other; subcategorising both groups, only one element stuck out – immediate future, particularly regarding the girls. “I think we should get on with the summer as we’ve planned, and, for now, just let it all drift.” This was more of a wish than a suggestion, and possibly the most honest wish I’ve ever made. “I think we all need some distance, get a better perspective, calm down and that sort of thing. At the end of the summer, I’ll come to collect the girls. We can talk about it then.” I said confidently.

Grandpa smiled “I should have known you’ll come up with something smart; wise way to move forward and give hope the situation will be rectified.” I always admired and respected him. He was so much like my own father, even in the way he looked out for me and praised me. His hair turned grey over the years, but it only added to his glamorous appearance; he aged very gracefully, though I believe we will enjoy his company for many years to come – broad shoulders, stern posture, active mind make me think of a cliff smoothed by waves and wind, standing strong and tall no longer in danger of being crushed by elements of nature. I often wonder if this is what my father would look like if the metal grain shot from the death pipe didn’t get him. I believe daddy and grandpa would have been great friends. I see them playing chess, enjoying each other’s company in silence. It wasn’t meant to be, I guess.

    I used to call grandpa ‘dad’, when Demir and I were still married, but after we got divorced it didn’t seem appropriate to call him that any more, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to call him by his name, so ‘grandpa’ was elected as the best option. I was uncomfortable around them for a very long time, or it seemed long, until grandpa pulled me aside once and said “You’ll always be my daughter. Don’t you ever forget that. Just the way Selma can call on me, so can you.” I know he meant it, but considering the implications I couldn’t ever test this.

“Thank you grandpa. So, we all agree with that plan?” I said.

“Err…”

“Demir!” grandpa reprimanded. I know Demir didn’t want to wait; patience was never his virtue. He had questions, things he wanted to know and he had to learn them now. But there were no answers. I didn’t know how the situation will be rectified. The page was blank and no matter how much any of them, or all of them, wanted answers, there simply weren’t any. We’ll all just have to wait and it seemed grandpa and I were the only ones happy to do it.

    Long time ago, in, what feels like, a different life when Demir was still trying to persuade me to go out with him, he asked me why am I refusing him and I said it was because I thought he needed to spend some time on his own, to figure out himself, what he wants, to get to know his own character. From various reports I read and bits of information he gave me about himself, I had the impression he was searching for something, but didn’t know what. He had a different girlfriend almost every week, every month he chased some new thrill (boats, balloons, aircrafts, climbing, jumping, swimming, skiing; it went on and on) and every season called for a new venture, a new challenge, temptation – win or lose.

    When I told him he needs to spend some time alone, hear nothing but his own voice, he said: “How long will that take?” I laughed “I’m serious” he went on “I’ll wait.” I tried to explain, but he failed to understand. Sometime after that he told me “I told my dad about your advice, you know, that I should take some time out. He was proud of you, especially after I told him how old you are. I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen my father proud. He couldn’t believe you are so young.”

    I matured very young, I had to. One day I was a school girl worried about a spot on my chin, the next day I couldn’t go to school because it was surrounded by snipers, the electricity and water were cut off and my father was killed on the main street. I can still remember the night in the shelter when my youth came to a premature end and adulthood kicked in with responsibilities and accountability for even the smallest of mistakes. A person learns very quickly when they are faced with that at such a vulnerable, impressionable age.

    As for my advice; it wasn’t entirely unheard though Demir never did find that ‘obsolete’ cave in which he intended to fulfil my wish – I didn’t want to disappoint him (he was convinced the lonely, unfashionable cave would be something he’d do for me, a favour, a gift, just for me) by telling him I don’t wish for that, so I appreciated his efforts (I figured, if he becomes a better person because of me, surely that’s something that will make me feel better and so, in some round way, it was for me – so I wasn’t lying). Demir calmed a lot, at least outwardly. What was going on inside, I’ve never learned.

    “So we are all in agreement? We’ll all just act as if nothing has changed…” I said, or tried to.

“Nothing has changed?” Demir interrupted, clearly agitated. Grandpa threw a glance at him and Demir was silenced.

“Nothing happened!” Grandpa said slicing the air horizontally with his hand, signalling the end of the matter.

    We all went out, one by one, both willingly and reluctantly. The garden was awash with sunlight, colours and aromas – grass, flowers, herbs and smoke coming off the barbeque, freely moving about, doing whatever it wanted. Mother Nature was probably the only one who didn’t have an opinion on my current predicament, my great solace who stayed away from anything that wasn’t her duty.

    I walked over to my girls to get away from the rest of the party, their smiles and facial expressions that I’d never seen on them before, that I couldn’t define, decode; I could only tell it had something to do with the latest revelation. Selma seemed positively chirpy, like a nightingale excited by the prospect that it lived to see the arrival of another spring. Demir’s mother and my mother, who were always civil to one another but never close, sat on the bench their heads almost touching, whispering something, their eyes glowing with every murmur shared. As I continued to look around I caught grandpa’s eyes and realised he’d been observing me. I turned around quickly and began to pretend I’m supervising the cooking, which was futile; grandpa knows girls haven’t needed any supervision for a long time. I was raised to believe in responsibilities – “You have to spend your time doing something, well, it might just as well be something useful, so you grow into a useful person, which will make you feel more fulfilled and therefore happy” my mother would say. Fulfilment and happiness were one and same – and so I raised my children with the same philosophy, although I used a very different technique. I turned it all into a game to avoid tediousness of a chore.

    When they were little we used to play baking all the time. Cookies, biscuits and jelly at first, then, sooner than I blinked, they wanted more. By the time they were nine they could make a cake on their own, and surprise me with it. For my thirtieth birthday, when they were only ten, they made a meal, with designed and printed menus. In fact, they usually prefer I stay out of their way. Two years ago they asked me if I would get out of the house for six to seven hours so they can do the cleaning I set for them. Of course I sneaked a peek; music was blazing through the whole house, Sofia was working outdoors, Leila was on the windows and Nadia could not be seen, but I heard her laughter too – I assume she was dusting and hovering, that’s what she likes to do most. That and ironing (God bless her, I always hated ironing, but she finds it therapeutic). She says “I’m taking the iron far a little walk, the poor thing’s been stuck in that closet for days”. Girls think Nadia is hiding her fetish for ironing, I think she’s hiding her feelings. Even though Nadia’s tone is jocular, I think her message is serious. I think she’s the one who feels like she’s locked in some small space, perhaps even suffocating. Maybe I’m dramatising but, taking the iron out for some reason, in some special way releases Nadia’s tension too, and she irons everything, including socks. Leila and Sofia often laugh at this, though I don’t know why. They both have quirky characteristics: Leila can’t stand any of the glass surfaces to have even the smallest of smudges – mirrors, television, computer, doors, windows; she will wipe the windows after rain even she washed them just before the rain fell. And Sofia will scrub the patio as if we intend to eat off it, hose down the fence, the gate, even flowers and trees so that it all “sparkles, because the indoors only friends get to enjoy, but outdoors even strangers and travellers take joy in” – I didn’t teach them this, they arrived to these points all on their own. I believe they were looking for an outlet for all their energy and that is what they found. I’m just doing my best to understand, or, in the least case scenario, tolerate it. Be that as it may, they certainly did not need my help with the barbeque.

    Sofia had her eye on the heat, Nadia was turning the meat and vegetables more than needed – they believed good barbeque is one where the food is cooked on smoke, and not one burned on charcoal. Leila was at the serving table arranging it – plates, cutlery, sauces, drinks, glasses, serving plates “Is it time to take out the ice?” Leila said.

“Good thinking.” Sofia replied as she made her way to the house.

“Come on everyone, the food is ready, or at least enough of it for starters.” Leila waved with a smile, glancing at the table, judging the fruit of her labour far more harshly than any of us would, moving the little jug with flowers, then letting it rest in almost the same place.