«Pick Up the Pieces in Your Own Backyard»
«You’re utterly daft, Emily! That good-for-nothing husband of yours will leave you high and dryjust you wait! Hasnt he put you through enough already?» Mum never minced words when it came to my husband, Simon.
«Mum, Simon and I have been married for thirty-seven years, and youve spent every single one of them warning me about him! Please, just stay out of it!» I snapped into the phoneagain.
I avoided seeing Mum too often because I knew shed harp on the same old tune: that my husband was a scoundrel. I was tired of defending him, though there was a grain of truth in her words.
Back in my younger days, Id left Simon in a moment of stupidity. We already had a five-year-old son, Oliver. Wed rowed something fierce, and I ended up in hospital with a concussion. I thought it was the enddivorce looming, single motherhood ahead. After discharge, I went to Mums since Oliver had been staying with her while I was laid up.
Mum heaved a sigh and declared, «See? Was I wrong? That mans a brute! Stay here. Dad and I will help you get back on your feet.»
«Ill think about it,» I murmured, too exhausted to argue.
«No thinking needed! That monster might hurt Oliver next! I wont let you go back!» Mum might as well have bolted the door shut.
Shed despised Simon from the start, refusing to hand over my dowry. «Let your precious husband clothe and feed you then.»
A week later, Simon came begging for forgiveness. Mum slammed the door in his face, hurling insults. I only found out latershe never told me hed even been there.
After a month of stewing, I decided to go back. Marriages have their ups and downs, as they say. Besides, I loved Simonalways had. Thered never been another man for me.
I hatched a plan: fetching winter clothes for Oliver and me. A solid excuse, right? Sneaking out while Mum wasnt looking, I took Oliver home.
Simon was over the moon. We reunited. Mum was livid.
Truth be told, Mum and I never clashed before. Shes kind, caringwonderful, really. But theres a skeleton in the cupboard. A dusty little corner.
At fourteen, rummaging for a globe in the attic, I found Mums old diary buried under junk. Curiosity got the better of me. God, I wish it hadnt.
Turns out, Id been sent to a childrens home right after birthdespite having loads of family. My supposed father had refused to claim me. «How do I know you didnt get knocked up by someone else?» The man who raised me wasnt even my real dad. Mum wrote that times were hard, that shed fetch me soon.
Back in her village, gossip spread like wildfire. A baby out of wedlock? No one would let that slide. It took a yearand my aunts interventionbefore I was brought home.
That evening, I confronted Mum. Without reading a word, she tore the diary to shreds. But the damage was done.
From then on, a wall rose between ustall, thick, unyielding. I saw her as a betrayer. Anger festered like tar. The bond was broken.
I swore then: my children would be raised by their own parents. No stepmothers, no stepfathers.
Simon, sensing Mums hatred, suggested another babysurely she wouldnt drag two kids away. I agreed.
Little Paul arrived. Mum still raged: «That tyrants trapped you now, Emily! Open your eyeshes cheating left and right! Youll regret this!»
She wasnt wrong. Simon was a charmer, women flocked to him. I shed plenty of tears.
The day I landed in hospital, wed fought over one of his brazen flings. Shed waltzed into our home, certain I was at work. But Id left early with a headache.
There they werehalf-dressed, champagne in hand. The girl bolted, shoving me aside. I fell, hit my head. Concussion.
Simon cooled his heelsbriefly. His conquests included coworkers, old flames, randoms. You cant cage the wind. At least he never fathered bastards. That wouldve been a mess.
Years later, Oliver followed in his fathers footstepsa mistress, a secret daughter. His poor wife. Kids always pay for their parents sins.
Ill never fathom what Mum wants. Once your child marries, your jobs done. Be there, help, but dont meddle. Let adults make their own mistakes.
As my gran used to say: «Tend your own garden.»
This generational clash? Itll never end. We keep stepping on the same rake.
Mum and I havent spoken in three years. She tells anyone wholl listen that Simon isnt fit to lick my boots.
Maybe, Mum, I deserve exactly the man Ive got.
I wouldnt have any other.
