“I still love you,” Matt tells me and it sounds as if he was noticeably surprised that after fifteen years of bearing children, scrubbing stoves and occasionally kicking doors I am still able to conjure up that deep seated emotion in him.
Maybe it is surprising. After all, familiarity can breed contempt. It is not an easy feat to stick together throughout the slime of childbirth and running noses, the grime of dirty bathtubs and worn-out underwear and the occasional (very occasional) bad sex.
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