Hold on a little longer, Mother, I hear myself saying now, as if the words were spoken from a distant hallway of memory.
When I was a boy, the house in a modest suburb of Manchester seemed to echo with my own cries. When will Father come? Im fed up! Wheres Father! Daddy! I shouted, my little voice a needle on the nerves of anyone within earshot. My cheeks flushed crimson, my tiny fists clenched tight.
Your father is at work; he should be back in about an hour. Son, calm yourself. Lets have a talk, my mother, Eleanor Harper, replied as steadily as she could, though inside she felt a knot tightening. I dont want to talk to you! Youre terrible! I only want my father! I stamped my foot, my voice cracking into a whine.
Tears gathered at the back of my throat. Eleanor stared at her tenyearold son and could not grasp how things had turned so sour. She had given him all her years, working from home for months, spending every spare minute beside him. When I started school she took a post in a nearby office, yet still managed zoo trips, museum visits, evening walks and bedtime stories all for me, all because of me.
I dont love you! Youve become a bother! Im tired of you! my shouted words pierced Eleanor like arrows.
She turned away, covering her mouth with a hand. Tears threatened to spill, but she could not let herself break down in front of her child. How could this have happened? She was his mother; she loved him more than life itself. Why did I see only an empty space in her? Why did I constantly demand Father?
Maxwell, please stop shouting. Father will be home soon, she tried again, her voice betraying a tremor.
I dont want to wait! I want him now! Youre a bad mother! You
A sharp ring cut through my cries. I lunged for the handset, snatching it from Eleanors grip.
Daddy! Daddy! I barked into the receiver, eyes fixed on the screen.
Eleanor stepped back a pace. Yes, it was indeed Andrew Harper. His familiar baritone filled the speaker.
Hello, lad! Hows it going? his voice was cheerful, caring.
Dad, I miss you! Mothers a pest, when will you be back? I clutched the phone to my ear, my face brightening instantly.
A pause. Eleanor braced herself for his reply.
Oh son, Im stuck at work. Another couple of hours. Hang on to Mother, Ill be there soon.
Hang on to Mother Those words lodged in Eleanors mind like a weight to bear, as though my presence had become a heavy burden.
Alright, Daddy, Ill wait! I beamed with joy.
Eleanor turned and hurried to her bedroom, legs trembling, throat dry. She slipped the door shut and collapsed onto the bed, a torrent of tears finally breaking free.
What was this? Why did neither son nor husband value her? Why had she become an obstacle that needed to be tolerated?
She pressed her face into the pillow, trying to weep quietly. It all felt terribly unfair. She had dreamed of this child, planned his future, imagined loving him forever. And yet he did not love her. What lay ahead? The teenage years loomed, and his temperament would only grow more demanding.
Minutes dragged on agonisingly. From the next room the sounds of a game reached our ears I had finally settled without her. Eleanor lay staring at the ceiling, wondering how to move forward with this anguish, how to remain a mother to one who rejected her.
Near nine oclock she sent me to bed. I sulked, demanding Father, but fatigue finally won, and I fell asleep.
Around midnight a key turned in the lock. Andrew entered the hallway. Eleanor met him there, arms crossed over her chest.
You know how often he waits for you. How can you be so late? her voice trembled with restrained anger.
Andrew shrugged off his coat without a glance at her.
We had a corporate function; I couldnt leave early. Work, you understand?
Your corporate event matters more than a childs emotional state? Eleanor whispered, careful not to wake me.
Dont make a scene. I earn the money for this family.
And what do I do? Just go to work for the sake of it? she replied, the words sharp.
Andrew slipped away to the bedroom, seemingly untouched by family concerns. Eleanor stood alone in the corridor, later retiring to the sofa. She tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. Thoughts swirled: could this be my whole life? Would it always be so?
Morning broke with laughter from the kitchen. Andrew and I sat at the table, sharing breakfast and jokes. I chattered about school; he listened attentively, asking questions.
Good morning, Eleanor entered, forcing a smile.
I didnt even look up. Andrew nodded, eyes still on me. Eleanor poured herself a cup of tea and sat down.
Yesterday we were given a tricky maths problem, I said, addressing only Father. I solved it myself!
Well done! Did Mother help you? Andrew asked.
Why would I need Mother? I did it on my own.
Eleanor tried to intervene. Maxwell, could you show me that problem? Im curious.
I continued talking with Father as if she werent there. He, too, ignored her. Eleanor felt as invisible as a piece of furniture in her own house.
Weeks passed in the same pattern. I shouted at her, demanded Father, brushed off her attempts at conversation. Andrew came home late, and in the mornings he spoke solely with me. Eleanor increasingly felt superfluous.
One afternoon, after I tossed my toys onto the floor for refusing to tidy up, something inside Eleanor finally snapped.
That evening, when Andrew returned, I told her, Im filing for divorce.
He looked up from his phone, stunned. What?
You heard me. Im filing for divorce.
He set the phone down, squinting. And where will you go? You have no flat of your own. Your parents live in another town. The house is mine. After a split youll have nowhere here!
Eleanor met his gaze. I know the house is yours. Thats why, in court, Ill argue the child should stay with you.
His face paled. How can that be? I cant manage him alone! I have work!
I have work too, she replied.
But hes still a child; he needs his mother!
He needs a father. He says it every day. Thats what Ill give him.
Andrew opened his mouth to object, but Eleanor was already out of the room. The decision was made.
A month later, the family court in Manchester convened. Eleanor stayed temporarily with a friend, Ivy Clarke, while she searched for a flat. I stopped calling, stopped writing. Eleanor finally convinced herself she had done the right thing.
A middleaged woman in a crisp suit, a representative of the Childrens Services, sat with me separately. At ten years old, my opinion counted in the hearing.
The courtroom read my statement aloud. Maxwell wishes to live with his father. He says he feels uncomfortable with his mother and prefers Dad. He says he loves his father more.
Each word pierced Eleanors chest. She stared at the table, fighting back tears, as her own son publicly disowned her.
Given the childs wishes, the fathers higher income and his own home, the court orders the child to remain with the father, announced the judge.
Our familys fate was sealed.
Andrew caught Eleanor in the corridor. Listen, take the child! I cant look after him! My job, travel what will I do with him?
Eleanor turned. I have a job too. I now need a place to live. So the child stays with you as the court decided. Ill pay maintenance and visit every few weeks.
But youre his mother!
And youre his father, the one he loves. Enjoy it.
She walked away without looking back.
She moved into a tiny studio flat, about twenty square metres, a cramped kitchen and a combined bathroom. It was her own space, free from shouting and neglect. The first night she wept for hours, having lost a husband, a child, a family. Yet no one mocked her there, no one made her feel worthless.
Visits from me were sparse, every fortnight at most. I would come, still angry. Because of you the family fell apart! I would yell, slumping on the couch. Dad now rarely comes home! A nanny looks after me! I hate you! Because of you I see Dad less!
After each visit Eleanor cried, but she kept moving forward. She found a new job with a decent salary, furnished the flat, enrolled in courses. My former motherinlaw, Violet Sinclair, called almost weekly. How could you leave and give the child to Andrew? her voice trembled with outrage. What kind of mother are you now?
Its his son too, Eleanor replied calmly. He chose to stay with his father. Why should I force him?
But children dont understand!
Maxwell is ten, not five. He got what he wanted.
Years slipped by. Eleanor built a new life: work she enjoyed, a cosy cottage, hobbies, friends. No longer did she live in constant stress, awaiting insults and screams.
Five years later, I had grown into a teenager. Mum, I said one day, I was wrong. I see now how badly I treated you and how I contributed to the divorce.
She brushed my hair, a familiar gesture from long ago. Its all right. I hope your own children will treat you better.
The love and warmth I once felt for my mother were gone, perhaps for the best. She had not let herself be destroyed. Society might label her a bad mother, but she remained true to herself, and that was what mattered most.
