I’m up again tonight. I’ve been awake for a while now, watching the moonlight slip across the room. It’s resting on the floor having recently abandoned the bed. Soon enough it will lay in the love seat, lingering to watch my husband and I before perching on the window over my garden. Then it will dive, brushing the rose petals with ghostly fingertips before setting among them, smiling with pleasure at their perfume.

I get out of bed, wrapping a shimmering white dressing gown over my pale pink nightdress. I walk through the moonlight to the window and gaze down upon the garden, my garden. And I smile.

I wander though the house, aimlessly, lightly touching one ornament than another, a ghost myself. I run my fingers across a vase. Suddenly I hear my mother’s voice in my head, sharp as a whip.

“Chastity May don’t touch that!”

I snatch my hand back as if burned, breathing heavily. My mother isn’t here of course. I remind myself of this and try to reach out to touch it again, but I can’t. It was a wedding gift from my parents that had been pasted through my family. It always sat on the fireplace mantle and I wanted nothing more than to run my fingers along the pewter blue flower pattern. But it was too delicate and I was too young. Now it belongs to me and I get an overwhelming urge to smash it. I turn away and convince myself that it’s the late hour that’s producing such a reaction.

I enter the kitchen, glancing around. Normally I drink lemonade during the day, but nights like this call for tea. I boil some water and locate a rosemary brew. I don’t drink alcohol often, nor does my husband. If we’re with friends then yes, but only in small amounts.

I pour my tea and wander back out. I sit on the patterned couch sipping tea. I wonder if I had any sisters if we would have done this growing up. I smile for a moment, imagining us sitting awake at night, sipping tea and confiding in each other. But of course not. Even if I had a sister my mother would not have found such a thing proper. But to my parents’ great disappointment I was their only child. And none of the cold friends I had then would have done such a thing either. They were chosen by my parents and were proper. I didn’t belong among them and we knew it. My family belonged. I should have belonged. But I didn’t. My parents tried everything – tutors, piano playing, being a proper hostess, dancing. But still they despaired that I would not find a good husband.

My husband was a friend of my father’s, younger than him but older than me. He found me in my garden. I love roses, more than anything. They’re alive, more so than anyone or anything else. I spent my time tending to them and escaping from everyone else. My husband, he understood that. He loved me. He knew I didn’t love him. So he never asked for love. He offered instead to take me away from the people who didn’t care about me, didn’t love me. He rescued me.

I notice my tea has gone cold.

He didn’t want to smother me so let me do as I please. The day we came to this house I discovered he had taken all the roses from my old garden and replanted them here. He smiled and said he knew I loved my roses best. I knew he loved me then, but I wonder sometimes if he still does.

I pour out my tea and head back to bed.

I lie beside my indifferent husband and quietly, for I have learned to be quiet, cry myself to sleep.