Stuart Robson
The first time I really noticed the door, really stopped, studied it, was after a conversation we - my partner and I - had about whether we wanted children. Initially we thought the timing hadn’t been right, we were great together, but we were young, just married, still in our 20’s, still having too much fun and loving it. But the more we thought about it, the more we realised there was no ‘right time’. The next day I noticed it, a door in our small rental flat. A strange door, it didn’t fit, it was too grown up, it was a pastel olive colour, over solid wood. Quite at odds with the cheap magnolia wall paint and MFC furniture.
It wasn’t always there, though I always pretended like I couldn’t see it. But sometimes, when I was on my own, or my partner was asleep, I couldn't help but be drawn to the door. I knew what it was, and that I shouldn’t go in, that would be like reading the last page of a book first. But that didn’t stop me from peering through the door. Inside I saw brief glimpses of myself, always different, always changing, always a little vague. I saw myself playing with my children, teaching them, and reading to them. Sometimes I even saw me talking to them after they had been naughty.
It felt like a tool for creation, something to prompt me to think about what I wanted my life to look like, how I would react in certain situations. In that time I had no feeling towards the door, other than a low level mix of fear and excitement.
Time moved on, I stopped noticing the door, though It was always with me, appearing when I needed it or when my mind simply wandered. Eventually, we moved to a place we could call our own, gone were the magnolia walls, replaced with millennial gray with splashes of riotous colour. A home bought for ourselves, but also to give more stability to the family I still desperately wanted. The door never appeared in this home, until the day we realised we would never have children. That day we returned home, it was there, carved into the wall, as if it had never been anywhere else.
On the better days, I could ignore it, like it was any other door I didn’t have use of, but it was still there, everpresent, like a threat of violence written on a wall. You could paint over it, but it was still there. On the darker days, all I could do was stare at it, watch it, willing myself not to go in. But on one of my darkest days I finally gave in. I entered the door.
I don’t know what possessed me, but I had to get closer. As before, the door didn’t fully fit with our clean, modern flat, our flat was freshly painted, whereas the olive door now looked a bit battered with life, marked with flecks of crayon, ghosts of tantrums and thrown toys. Witnesses of the life that had been denied to me. Gingerly I pushed open the door greeted by a world of warmth and laughter. I could no longer resist. I stepped over the threshold. Inside was a grown up but messy room, pastel walls contrasted with the spread of children's toys on the floor. And in the centre of the chaos, there I was. A little more tired and a little more dishevelled but definitely me. The other me looked happy, at home in the chaos of parenthood. They didn’t see me. They never saw me. I left. I wept but I kept coming back.
And this is how it continued. Sometimes I could resist, sometimes it felt like I spent weeks in that room. It wasn’t always picture perfect moments, sometimes they would shout at their children, I would demand to know why they were doing that? Didn’t they know others wanted what they had? Somehow this was worse than when it was all smiles and joy. I knew I had to stop walking through that fucking door.
I wanted to leave our flat, but the door had followed me before, so it would do so again. A move was not enough to escape my grief. People say time heals all wounds. This is a lie. Wounds of grief never heal fully, but we learn (and are taught) ways to cope with them, we learn how to put one foot in front of the other and walk past that door.
The last time I walked through the door was almost ten years after I realised that parenthood would not be in my life. I’d moved on so much I was surprised to see it there. It didn’t fit with my home, it didn't fit with my life; it didn't belong here. But I couldn't resist walking through it again. The door was more battered still, weathered with age, but inside, it was like time had barely moved. There I was, a little older, a little more tired, smiling through the chaos. I wouldn’t say I felt happy for the other me, but I didn't feel sad for myself either. Though they couldn’t see me, I smiled back at the other me. In that moment I realised, I’d made my own life, my own experiences, done things I couldn't have done in the other life. I looked at my other self, I felt tired, happy, frustrated and a little scared and I realised we were the same person inside, we had just walked different paths, both of them scary, fun, tearful and chaotic, but importantly, both valid and both missing out on the other’s experiences.
My heart said goodbye and I closed the door.
