It’s the stories we tell ourselves, as much as anything, that define who we are. My story involves a lot of pain and very few happy endings. I’ve just realized that I’m going to lie to my daughter. Lie and lie and lie again, for the whole of my life. She will not grow up inside my story. Her’s will be one in which all things are possible and defeat will not ever be permanent.
My father’s story involved the curative powers of alcohol, and in a way it was a cure. It killed him. I edited the alcohol out of my tale but he bequeathed me the pain that made him drink. I would give Emlyn anything and everything that I have, but she inherits none of that. This is my new story and I will repeat it in the night before sleep, in the light of each new morning, beside fires in the wilderness and sitting at the kitchen table. That which I say three times might not be true, but that which I say now and always, will be.