The desire to watch TV had vanished—we had stories and imagination.

And the drive to rule my own business, to give back to a world I’d failed, and prove to myself I was a better person no longer controlled me because I had a woman and children and they’d redeemed me.

I’d donated everything I was to those I loved.

I would die for them.

I would survive for them.

And nothing was better than that.

Nothing.

.............................

DECEMBER

The turtles came and went.

As did Christmas.

Once again, we ignored the holiday but celebrated the arrival of our flippered friends.

All of us spent the night by their shelled sides as they dug nests, laid eggs, and hauled themselves back to the ocean.

Estelle and I made love (it was almost a tradition now) in the ocean where we’d finally given into desire for the first time. We spent the night away from the kids, confident they would watch over Coco, and watched the sunrise in each other’s arms.

As we strolled back along the beach to our home and resemblance of civility, we found a turtle who’d sacrificed her life for her offspring.

The leathered beast had died only a metre from the sea. She lay there pristine, so perfect and wizened, it seemed she’d only slipped into a nap.

But we knew.

Just like we knew if the kids were hurt. Or the winds had changed. Or the temperature was hotter than last month. Our perception was so much more sensitive, and we understood sleep hadn’t taken her but death.

I didn’t look at Estelle, but we’d been given a dilemma.

We had a turtle.

We could live because of its death.

We could eat her flesh.

Use her shell.

She would have our eternal gratitude.

I didn’t know if Estelle shared my thoughts, but it didn’t matter.

Because that was all they were.

Thoughts.

We wouldn’t desecrate such a magnificent creature.

Wordlessly, we each grabbed a flipper and hauled her bulk into the sea. She floated serenely, slowly taken by the gentle currents.

Her body would feed sharks and fish.

She would vanish to give others another day.

But not us.

.............................

JANUARY

Pippa turned ten.

For her birthday gifts, we all contributed random things for her bedroom. Estelle made her a set of coconut vases for knickknacks and keepsakes. Conner carved a sunburst on the wall above her leaf-stuffed bed, and I wove a miniature hammock to house Puffin and Mr. Whisker Wood.

The day was good.

But the rest of the month wasn’t.

Things were changing.

Things we couldn’t afford to change.

We ate the best we could.

We stayed as varied as possible and constantly tried new things (sometimes to the detriment of our digestive systems), but we attempted to get as many nutrients as we could to combat the side effects of living on an island.

We’d lasted longer than I thought.

But it was inevitable.

We were all so skinny, becoming slowly malnourished.

We were all salt-covered and sun-beaten, switching from surviving to suffering.

Internally, our bodies had reached their limits.

I grew woozy if I stood too fast. I struggled to swallow.

I had vicious food cravings for things my body needed: red meat for iron, bread for carbohydrates, and sugar for glucose.

I grew tired more easily, and we’d begun to nap longer in the afternoon beneath our umbrella tree.

Even my hair felt different, less full and like straw.

Conner and Pippa continued to grow, and Coco exploded in height and energy daily. But Estelle admitted late one night that her periods had finally stopped.

That our fear of another pregnancy was over because her body no longer had the nutrition required to ovulate.

We treated it as a success.

We had sex, and I didn’t pull out.

We laughed and said nature had finally given us contraception.

We ignored what it truly meant.

We loved our island and new way of life.

But it didn’t love us.

It was slowly killing us.

.............................

FEBRUARY

“What’s your most favourite thing in the world?” Estelle angled the phone at Conner, recording yet another home movie.

Today, she’d recorded countless memories.

Today was Coconut’s first birthday.

“This little nut right here.” Conner tickled Coco, who sat happily in his lap.

She didn’t understand the importance of such a day or why I snuck off with her mother halfway through the festivities to make love in the same sea where she’d been delivered.

She squealed and laughed as Pippa and Conner buried her little legs in the sand and crafted her one large candle with the words ‘You’re our Favourite Nut’ in the moulded flame.

It’d been a cute day, and we were all tired from tenderising and kebabing the octopus we’d eaten for lunch.

Estelle angled the phone in my direction. “And your favourite thing, G?”

My eyes met hers; my cock twitched. I’d had her a few hours ago, yet I could go another round. I didn’t know if was the pure Fijian air or the fact she constantly teased me by wandering around half-naked in her fading bikini. Either way, she was right when she said my libido was out of control. Even with my rapidly depleting reserves.

“You, of course. You’re my wife.”

A year.

One full year she’d been my wife. We hadn’t celebrated, but we had retied flax rings around our fingers in symbol for the ones that’d disintegrated long ago.