Handbag

Wiping the rain from my beautiful handbag with a paper napkin, I try to conceal my tears. It’s all been too much, and sitting there, outmaneuvered at the train station, with both my parents, I just can’t deal with any more.

‘What an exquisite handbag. It’s stunning. Just beautiful.’ Says a woman at the next table.

I look up surprised. ‘Thank you.’ I say, smiling a watery smile. ‘It’s my pride and joy.’

‘It’s just lovely – so unusual.’ She continues.

‘She has good taste, my daughter,’ interrupts my father, ‘She inherited it from her parents.’

‘You don’t inherit good taste,’ replies the woman, calmly but firmly, ‘You’re born with it. It’s inherent and particular to the self.’

I look at her and she smiles kindly at me. She understands, understands how difficult it is, how difficult he is. And for a moment, I don’t feel quite so alone.