They say were the architects of our own fateeverything that happens in our lives is our own doing, for better or worse. The choices we make each day, apparently, define the lives we end up living.
If thats true, then I must have been decorating my destiny with blindfolds and earplugs when, years ago, I linked my life to a chap who was, lets say, not the epitome of dependability. In my salad days, I was hopelessly smitten with Frank, even though everyone and their dog knew he was as fickle as the English weather. Naturally, I was convinced that my love would transform him into the model husband. Hope, as they say, springs eternal. Or foolish. As it turned out, people don’t just rewrite their personality for you, no matter how many Victoria sponges you attempt to bake. Even after my son, Freddie, was born, Frank remained as reliably unreliable as always.
Every month brought a fresh update on Franks extracurricular activities. The neighbours, friends, my cousinseveryone seemed to know more about his escapades than I did. It was a proper soap opera, with me as the unwitting star. I felt a heady cocktail of embarrassment and indignation, all shaken up with a dash of humiliation. After five years of playing the martyr, I threw in the tea towel. I filed for divorce. If there was a silver lining, its that Frank wasnt a greedy sort. He handed over his flat to me, provided I didnt ask for child support. Fair enough, I thought. Freddie and I didnt fancy living theretoo many ghosts of Sunday roasts gone wrong. Instead, I let it out and moved back in with Mum. She needed someone about, and so did I.
The rent money all went to Freddie: clothes, school trips to historic castles, outings to see pantomimeswhatever he needed for a halfway decent childhood. I paid the bills, restocked the fridge, and bought Mums medicine, as shed been bedridden for years. I always believed Freddie saw my efforts, appreciated the sacrifices. Now, here I am, fifty-seven, with a dodgy case of diabetes, forever jabbing myself with insulin and praying for a few more good years.
Because of my health, I cant exactly nip down to the local job centre and pick up a shift. Realistically, who needs a middle-aged former accounts clerk with a dodgy pancreas and a patchwork C.V.? Mostly, I did cash-in-hand jobsbabysitting, the odd bit of cleaningtrying to keep us afloat. So, no pension to speak of, not even the humble sort that buys you a cuppa and a custard cream down the bingo hall. These days, I scrape by on the rent from Franks old flat.
Freddie, now thirty-one, has just announced hes getting married. And naturally, he and his new wife will be moving into that flat, effective immediately. When I gently pointed out that this would leave his old mum absolutely skint, he shrugged and said, Thats not really my problem, Mum.
Im stumped. No nest egg, no magic cupboard full of sterling, a medicine cabinet that could stock the local chemists, and now no rent. What on earth am I supposed to do? Why on Gods green earth would my own son leave me in the lurch like this? Some days, all you can do is put the kettle on and ponder how you ended up herewith no cake, not even a crumb.
