I just love watching my two boys; whatever game they're playing, they give it their all. After tossing around a football this morning, they settled into a chess match at the dining room table. They've been at it for hours now.

I'm so lucky they are as devoted to each other as they are to me. A woman today has so many demands on her. If one is to believe the magazine articles, just being a good wife and mother is no longer enough. And those anti-war hippie protesters frighten me a bit. What's this world coming to.

Ah, there's the over bell. "Paul, Steven, go wash up for dinner."

“I don’t want to do this.” My stride is a waddle. “Isn’t there another way?”

“Sugar, you know how Section operates. It’s the only way you can guarantee they’ll both survive,” he tells me. He looks older, more tired than his years. His heart’s breaking, like mine, but we both know there’s still the possibility of obliteration.

“All right. I’ll do it, but only because I love you, Walter. You’re more a father to me than my real dad.” The words come easily to me, because they’re true.

I feel the twins kick – and I want to die.

Hearing shouted voices, the child cringed under the covers, hoping her mother would let it go for one night. But, as usual, she was yanked out of bed and onto the pink paisley couch of inquisition.

"You're just no good……Any trouble between him and me is all your fault…….He's my medicine, you're my poison."

The child focused on the couch's pink-fringed paisley pattern, the lamp's delicate-porcelain smiling couple, the chiffon-robed ladies floating across a blue Wedgwood cigarette box.

Her mother's final proclamation etched with acid into her soul.

"You'll end your days in the gutter. You're just a bad seed."

Her mother’s gaze narrows. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” She hears the panic in her voice. “He hit me!”

“You’re lying!” Her mother’s hand is suddenly gripping her forearm. Pointy little fingernails digging painfully into her skin. “Because you can’t help yourself. You just have to be the centre of attention, don’t you?”

The pain of betrayal fills her heart as the tears fill her eyes. “But he…”

Her mother leans closer, dark eyes glowing with a wild anger, and her fetid breath – ripe with cheap bourbon – fills the air. “He’s staying. If you don’t like it, you can get out.”

I have manipulated her, abused her and still she seems to care for me. I do not deserve her regard. She has done everything I have ever asked of her, but this last thing may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. She may refuse what I next ask of her.

It will be the hardest thing of her life, but I feel deeply that what she receives in return will make her amenable to my request. I will offer her the life of her lover and his son. Surely, she will take over for me when I am dead.

It’s Christmas time, family time, but we aren’t really a family anymore. My precious, precocious, little Madeline is no longer a child. The tragedy of Sara’s death has taken her and transformed her into a suffering adult creature. I no longer know how to relate to her. I see the sadness in her eyes, she’s pulling away, and I don’t know how to help.

“Merry Christmas,” I hear her proclaim, as she sits by the tree but there is nothing merry about this holiday.

“Merry Christmas Madeline.” I can only hope she hears me, hears the love in my voice.

“Just tell me why?”

His face was bloody and bruised, the work of his captors. He slowly lifted his head. “I can’t.”

She stared at her brother – the terrorist - who had loved and raised her for the last five years. “Please, let me help you,” she pleaded.

“No.”

He stared blankly ahead sending a cold chill through her bones. Who was he? “Michael, I’ll hire the best lawyers in Paris. We’ll get you out.”

He shook his head. “Please go.”

Tears spilling from her eyes, she fled the prison. A familiar face was waiting outside.

“Rene, thank God!”

Dark, warmth, light, hunger, and sleep create patterns of sensation and awareness. He is aware that when he cries, his hunger ceases; when he is tired he sleeps. When his wrappings become cold and wet, he can cry and the irritation will be replaced with dry, warm comfort.

He is also aware that there is another nearby. One that is familiar from the dark, water-filled days before the light. He finds comfort knowing that the other is nearby; he feels happiest when they are able to touch.

He sees the other carried away. Unable to see the other, he cries.

She waits, quivering in the frigid cold. Soon the shelter would open and warmth and food would be welcome. even if delivered impersonally. A hand thrusts a plainly wrapped package into her face. She jumps, taken unaware. A man, cap pulled low, is already stepping into the open side door of a van. She peers into the darkened interior of the van, trying to make out the figure of another man inside. No luck. He's in shadow, dressed in black. She opens the package to find a warm knit hat and gloves. When she looks up, the van is gone.