All through these weeks I retained an impression of my daughter's eyes, dark and bright an docked on mine as she was passed from one stranger, with their story, their particular body and breath, their indefinable aura, to another… I had discovered, too, that those hours I had purchased back were damaged and second-hand. They were cramped and unsatisfactory; they were hours whose crazy ticking could be heard. Living those hours was like living in a taxi cab. Working in them was hard enough; pleasure, or at least rest, was unthinkable. I couldn't fit my work dingo a space carved, as it seemed to me, from my daughter's own flesh. Besides, I had conveyed to her distinctly the fact that I thought her abandonment was unreasonable, her protests fair: I wasn't ready, it seemed to let her love somebody else.
- A Life's Work by Rachel Cusk
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