Your Roots Are Showing Read Online Free Page A

garden with an enormous pair of shears, pruning things right, left, and center without so much as a by-your-leave.
    Glancing feverishly out of her window at the overcoat ducking about in the shrubbery, Lizzie fired up the computer and bashed out an e-mail to her sister (who had most inconveniently moved to Australia), writing things that normally she didn’t put into words, not even to herself.
    From: Lizzie Buckley [email protected]
    Sent: 12 April
    To: [email protected]
    Subject: Blue Monday
    AAAAAARGH!
    You know what, Janie? Some mornings I wake up and I’m sick, sick of it all before the day even kicks off. Then, just in case I start feeling better after my cup of tea, one of the children goes and carves out train tracks on an antique table, or throws up her Reddybrek on a priceless Persian rug. I don’t want to scare the daylights out of you when you’re pregnant, but I feel it’s my sisterly duty to warn you that this whole mumsy thing is way more difficult than people let on.
    But worst of all is what the little beggars do to your marriage.
    By the time James comes home from work, I’ve already HAD my fair share of physical contact (Ellie squishing my cheeks between her hands so I won’t look at Alex; Alex sitting on me to stop me from jumping up to do the laundry), not to mention body fluids (snotty noses, bloody knees, and my personal favorite, the wee-soaked sheet) — and frankly I’m just not up for any more.
    Sorting out the sock drawer sounds like a better option to me than sex right now.
    I just wish James would go away on business more, and for longer. Things are so much simpler when he’s away. I can have a boiled egg for dinner with the kids, watch room makeovers and plastic surgery on TV, and turn in early without any pressure to light the scented candles, etc.
    Another great thing about those business trips: if I have to get up in the night to deal with a twin while he’s away, at least I’m spared the seething resentment I normally feel when I finally stagger back to bed to find that he hasn’t even surfaced out of his REM cycle.
    You know, sometimes I think I wouldn’t miss him at all if he just disappeared. In fact, the quality of my life would probably improve. No more of those great big shoes cluttering up the closet; no more chucked-aside underpants to pick up off the bathroom floor.
    I don’t know how it’s come to this, really.
    I still love him, don’t get me wrong, but it’s more the way you love a comrade- in-arms, or a brother. It’s just not romantic anymore. Poor bloke, at least he doesn’t know how I feel. I’ve done a brilliant job covering up, though I say so myself. But the subterfuge is wearing me out.
    All this is his fault, you know. He made me think I wanted it — marriage, children, Spode dinnerware, my own tumble dryer, those blunt little knives with fancy handles for spreading pâté. But I don’t, I don’t. I just want to be left in peace with a Sudoku and a box of chocolates — and nobody nibbling my ear at bloody midnight.
    Sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping all this on you now. I’ll try to be more upbeat next time. Has the nausea stopped, by the way? Now that you’re past the first trimester, the worst should be over.
    Lots of love,
    Lizzie
    She read the note through once, corrected a couple of typos, and then pressed “Send.”
    It was only when her computer displayed a snappy, efficient note that “Blue Monday” had successfully been sent to [email protected] that Lizzie began to realize she’d made a fairly considerable mistake.
    With the quickness of hindsight she knew immediately what had happened. She had typed “ja” for Janie in the “To” box and the helpful e-mail program had prompted with James’s address. It always did this, and she always kept typing until Janie’s address popped up. But this time, perhaps because she was tired and miserable, she’d simply hit the enter key.
    Why wasn’t there a way of recalling