«You’re a right fool, Emmeline! That oaf of yours, Alfred, will leave you high and dry someday! Hasnt he wrung you out enough already?» Mum never minced her words when it came to her son-in-law.
«Mum, Alfred and I have been together thirty-seven years, and all this time youve been scaring me off him! Please, just stay out of it!» I snapped into the phonethe same argument, over and over.
I avoided seeing her too often. I knew the script by hearthow my husband was a no-good scoundrel. Id given up defending him, though, truth be told, she wasnt entirely wrong.
Once, in my younger days, I left him over my own foolishness. We had our five-year-old son, Oliver, then. Wed rowed something awful. I ended up in hospital with a concussion. Thought that was itdivorce, single motherhood. After discharge, I went to Mums, since Oliver had stayed with her while I was laid up.
Mum heaved a sigh and declared:
«See? I told you he was a brute! Stay here. Your father and I will help you get back on your feet.»
«Ill think about it,» I muttered, exhausted, unsure what to do.
«Think? That monster might do worse to Ollie next time! I wont let you go back!» She might as well have barred the door with an iron bolt.
Mum had despised Alfred from the start. Shed even hidden my dowry, sneering, «Let your precious fiancé clothe and feed you.»
A week later, Alfred turned up, full of remorse. Mum slammed the door in his face. I only found out latershed never breathed a word while I was out with Oliver.
After a month of stewing, I decided to go back. Every marriage has its storms. Besides, I loved himalways had. Never another man for me.
I plotted how to sneak back. Winter was comingperfect excuse to fetch our coats. So, behind Mums back, I took Oliver home.
Alfred was stunned, overjoyed. The family was whole again. Mum fumed.
Truth was, Mum and I never really clashed. She was kind, devoteda wonderful woman. But there was a skeleton in the cupboard. A dusty little corner.
Once, at fourteen, rummaging for a globe in the attic, I unearthed Mums old diary. Shouldve left it buried.
Turns out, after I was born, I was sent straight to a childrens homedespite a house full of relatives. My father had spat, «How do I know who knocked you up?» The man raising me wasnt my blood. Mum wrote of «hard times,» promising to fetch me soon.
Back then, she lived in a village where walls had ears. Gossip could flay you alive for an illegitimate child. A year later, my aunt shamed the family into taking me back.
That evening, I confronted Mum. She tore the diary to shreds without reading a lineshe knew every word by heart. But Id seen enough.
From then on, a wall rose between ustall, thick, endless. Betrayal festered in me like tar. The invisible threads binding mother and daughter had snapped for good.
I swore then: my children would know their true parents. No stepfathers, no stepmothers.
Alfred, sensing Mums hate, suggested a second child»She wont drag two kids away.» I agreed.
Enter little Paul. Mum raged: «Fool! That tyrants chaining you with another baby!»
She wasnt wrong. Alfred was a proper rake. Tears I shed were plenty. Handsome devil, silver-tonguedwomen clung to him like wet leaves.
The day I got concussed, wed fought over his latest tart. Shed waltzed in, certain I was at workbut Id left early with a headache.
There they were, half-dressed in our bedroom, sipping champagne. Cheeky sods. The girl bolted past me, shoving me flat on my back. Concussion. Alfred lay lowbriefly.
His conquests piled upcolleagues, schoolmates, strangers. You cant cage the wind. At least he fathered no bastardssmall mercies.
Years on, my Oliver repeated historya mistress, a secret daughter. His lawful wife and child none the wiser. Like father, like son.
What does Mum even want? A mothers job ends at the wedding. Visit, dote on grandchildrenbut dont hitch the cart before the horse.
Let adults stew in their own juice, bump their heads, sand down their edges. Its their life!
As my gran used to say:
«Pick up glass only in your own garden.»
This generational war? Never-ending. Same rakes, same stepped-on toes.
Mum and I havent spoken in three years. A stalemate of sulks. She tells the whole street her son-in-law isnt fit to lick my boots.
But Mummaybe I deserve exactly this man.
Ill have no other.
