On a Full House, a Daughter Home, and a Supper with Writer Friends — a writer’s diary entry, 24th of July

My daughter arrived on Tuesday and the house has been a different house since. Louder. Fuller. There’s a pair of trainers by the door that aren’t mine, and a phone charging on the kitchen counter, and someone else’s music coming down the stairs of a morning, and I’d forgotten how much I love the particular noise of another person being alive in your rooms. I made up the little bed under the eaves the way I always do, lavender folded in with the sheets, the window cracked for the night air. She’s taller than me now and calls it her room still, and I let her, because it is.

I had the writers round last night. Six of us, seven with her, gathered at the long table under the fig tree, because the evenings have finally cooled enough to sit out again since the rain. I did a barbecue, which I do badly and cheerfully, aubergines and courgettes straight off the potager mostly, a leg of lamb one of the poets had strong opinions about, far too much bread. Everyone brought a bottle and nobody brought any sense and it was exactly right.

At some point, the way it always goes with writers, somebody read something out. The newest of us read the opening of the thing she’s been too frightened to show a soul, out loud, in the dark, with the candles guttering and the moths coming in off the vines to worry at them. We all went quiet in the good way. I don’t think there is anything quite like hearing a person read their own sentences aloud for the first time. Terrifying for them. A gift for the rest of us, every time.

My daughter watched the whole of it with a face I couldn’t quite read. Afterwards she said, you have a whole life here, don’t you. Not a question. I said I supposed I did. I don’t think she’d ever seen me before as a woman with a table full of her own people. I think children see only the mother for a very long time, and then one ordinary evening they catch sight of the person, and it rearranges something in them that doesn’t go back.

The moon was waxing gibbous over the fig tree, well past the half now and filling toward the full one on the twenty-ninth, and I kept catching it between the leaves all evening. I did nothing with it. I just noticed it up there, presiding, the way it does. Some nights the only ritual is that everyone stayed far too late and nobody wanted to be the one to break it.

They left near one. I stood out in the lane in my bare feet and watched the last of the tail-lights go, and then the frogs started up again in the ditch as though they’d been politely waiting their turn. My daughter was already asleep upstairs. I did the plates in the morning, and every single one of them was worth it.