My mother always seemed to know best.
Emma, I simply cant warm to this Charles of yours, she declared after meeting the young man my father had once spoken of.
She urged me to heed her advice, or at least to ask what it was about my suitor that displeased her. Often a person is merely not to ones taste, but sometimes there are hidden signs in his behaviour that a lovestruck girl might overlook. Had I listened, the tale could have unfolded differently.
Instead, I waved her concerns aside, offering what I thought were perfectly reasonable replies.
You never seem satisfied with anyone, she snapped. Thats why youre still on your own, while you could have married even a man like me, if youre so keen.
You think you understand a great deal, I retorted, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
And why should you think I dont? she shot back. Just because Im older?
I wasnt blind; I saw other men showing interest, seemingly decent fellows. Yet I brushed them all aside without a second thought.
Without a glance? my mother mused, then cut the argument short. Thats enough, Emma. Lets end this discussion.
Id given her my opinion the moment Id brought Charles to her, and from there I was free to decide whether to listen to her or to choose for myself who deserved me.
Mother, I must remind you Im a little late to decide now, I said. Im pregnant with Charless child. And as long as thats true, my baby wont grow up fatherless.
A part of my resentment toward my mother stemmed from the absence of a father figure in my life. At school I had been the only girl whose father was missing without any respectable excuse. Two of my classmates had lost fathers to death, but that was not the same as never having had one at all.
My own father had been present at birth, then, before I even turned three, my parents divorced and he simply disappeared from our lives. He later claimed that, had I given him a son, we might have spoken of joint parenting. Yet the child was still being raised by my mother alone, and there was little point in demanding his share of responsibility.
Fortunately, he paid child support faithfully, though he never set foot in my world nor showed any interest in my fate. I had come to believe that his absence was, in some way, my mothers fault. After all, a stepfather could have been introduced, and we might have lived comfortably together. Perhaps he wouldnt have loved me as some of the other girls fathers did, but at least a man would have been present, sparing us the stigma of a broken family that the other children whispered about.
So I resolved that my child would have a father in spirit, if not in flesh. Charles, though far from perfect, loved me and would love our baby.
When the paternity test confirmed his blood, he beamed and, like a proper gentleman, proposed that I move into his flat and turned the spare bedroom into a nursery. His enthusiasm melted my heart; my mothers criticisms of him could not tarnish that picture.
In the end, it was not my mother who forced us to stay together.
What truly unsettled me about Charles emerged when our child turned one. He kept a steady job, yet he never offered even a hint of help with little Lucy. His mother, Eleanor Whitaker, fanned the flames by boasting incessantly about how she managed two children, a spotless house, and a job she resumed almost immediately after giving birth. She preached a modern, gadgetfilled lifestyleher own home boasted the latest appliances, yet she ignored the fact that both of her grandchildren were placed in a local nursery as soon as they were a few weeks old, looked after by staff while their parents worked.
Eleanors idea of a happy mother was to dash in during a break to feed the child, then send the youngster to a crèche, later to a nursery, and finally to a school with an aftercare club that helped with homework and meals. Her own contribution at home boiled down to making breakfast and doing the laundryby then, a washing machine, though not the sleek models of today, was already in use. She set this as the benchmark for a respectable household.
Trouble arrived on the very first day Lucy entered the world: there were no nurseries in our town at all. Mothers of toddlers were left to care for their children alone, twentyfour hours a day, seven days a week. Some were lucky to have help from husbands or mothers, but my own mother lived in another county and had not yet retired, leaving me to manage everything on my own.
Nevertheless, I kept telling myself that Charles loved us and that our family was decentuntil the day a false fire alarm shattered the calm. The alarm had gone off twice earlier that year, each time a prank, and Charles seemed to ignore it. I rinsed the shampoo from my hair, wrapped a towel around my shoulders, and went to see what was happening.
I found the front door ajar, smoke seeping in from the stairwell, and Charles nowhere to be seen. I sprinted to the nursery, swaddled Lucy in a blanket, and fled. I scrambled up to the attic and slipped into the neighbours flat. Outside, the first thing I saw was Charles, trembling, clutching his brandnew gaming PC. Around his neck dangled a professional video camera he had bought six months earlier; from the pocket of his jacket protruded a tablet and a mobile phone.
Dammit, I muttered, and if I hadnt been holding a child, I might well have struck him. Instead I shoved him hard in the groin, cursing like a dock labourer, and ran.
What drove me beyond that was his reaction. Instead of apologising or trying to explain, he accused me of losing my mind, claiming he had simply forgotten his wife and child in the panica common human error, he said. Yet his reflexes had clearly saved his prized gadgets, not his wife or child.
Naturally, I divorced Charles after that. For the next six months his mother pestered me, demanding we reconcile for the sake of the family. Fortunately my own mother welcomed me and Lucy back into her home.
Mother, you were right, I confessed. I shouldnt have gotten involved with Charles. You saw how he could abandon me in trouble.
She smiled. Do you remember how we met at the block of flats? That terrier, Archie, barked at us as we entered.
Archie? He barks at everyone; his owner, Tom, never lets him off the leash. Hes a gentle dog, just scared.
Yes, and when he threw that bark at us, you fled, leaving Charles to run away. You didnt shield Lucy from danger, nor did you even try to pull her back by the hand. She reminded me that I had already been carrying his child, and he knew it. Loving husbands and fathers dont act like that, she added.
In my youth I might have replied, You think you know all about loving husbands and fathers. Now, with the benefit of experience, I simply remained silent. I realised, not too late, that merely having a father or husband under the roof does not guarantee a healthy home.
Sometimes it is better to raise a child alone than to stay with anyone merely for the sake of a pretty picture. I will not repeat that mistake. And if Lucy someday, like me, asks her mother why she grew up without a father, I will have an answer.
I will tell her plainly that, in an emergency, her father chose to rescue his laptop, phone, tablet, and camera rather than his wife or child. I wonder whether, in his old age, hell ever tend to his own equipment or will finally ask his daughter for help. I doubt Lucy will ever forgive such selfishness, and I certainly would not.
