She didn’t add what we both knew to be true – I stood no chance of finding a man who wanted to share my current life, unless he was also prepared to share it with my mother. I had met Jonathan in my final year at Nottingham University (commuting every day from home). Back then, it was probably only natural that Mum and I were close, given that it had been the two of us for so long. It was as Jonathan and I grew more serious that her mystery pains began, and as her illness grew worse, alongside the anxiety, I ended up having to repeatedly prioritise her over Jonathan.
The frailer she grew, the clearer it became quite how much she needed me. She told Jonathan, several times, that I was ‘the man of the house’ and once she reduced her hours at the shop it seemed sensible to transfer household accounts to my name. After a few months, she had deteriorated to the point where she couldn’t drive any more, so also depended on me for lifts.
For three years Jonathan was inordinately patient. When he asked me to marry him on my twenty-fourth birthday, I said that I couldn’t leave Mum when she was still so ill. He asked again, twice more, over the next year, sure that we could make it work, even offering to pay for some home help for her. I dithered and delayed answering, until, eventually, his patience ran out. He said that as much as he loved me, he couldn’t handle always coming second. It hurt him too much to see me trapped in what he called a toxic relationship and if I wasn’t prepared to build some boundaries, we weren’t going to make it.
I was shocked. How could he ask me to build boundaries when she was so ill, and still had no diagnosis?
How dare he make me choose between him and my mother?
When he quietly suggested that Mum had subconsciously imagined the symptoms because she was scared to lose me, I was beyond furious. And when in the argument that ensued he took it a step further, accusing her of deliberately making them up, that was it. We were over.
And yes, a tiny part of me may have reacted with such ferocity because for one horrible moment, I had wondered that, too.
In the days after Jonathan and I split up, as I cried on the sofa, nursing my broken heart with a giant tub of ice cream, Mum’s pains began to improve. I put away all thoughts that Jonathan had been right. She was better now, and that was what mattered.
I thought about Aunty Linda’s advice as I walked back through the murky drizzle, to the street of 1920s semi-detached homes where I’d spent my entire life. She was right, of course – I was earning enough to support myself, if I was careful, so money was no reason to wait until I was married before moving out. Yet, that was the eventuality Mum had always drilled into me: ‘When you get married, and have your own place…’
For the most part, Mum and I had a good relationship. Leaving would devastate her, and I wasn’t sure it was worth it. If I spoke to her and put some boundaries in place, maybe things could get better without me having to move out.
Besides, I’d never spent so much as one night alone. What if I hated it?
Even thinking about the logistics of it all: telling Mum, packing up, sorting all the admin, finding somewhere new… the whole idea was exhausting, and that was all before I’d actually gone anywhere.
But as I trudged up our narrow, concrete drive, I allowed myself one moment to imagine what it would be like if the house that awaited me was empty. I’d slip off my shoes, sink into the sofa and soak up the blissful silence. I’d watch whatever I felt like on television instead of endless soap operas. Eat what I wanted, when I wanted, rather than the standard six o’clock sit-down meal.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I’d please myself.
Was I a horrible, selfish cow for even thinking about it?
Either way, I thought of nothing else for the rest of the week. On Saturday morning, as soon as Mum left for work at the Buttonhole, I drove round to see Steph, with the promise of her usual weekend breakfast pancakes, bacon and eggs and token bowl of berries.
Her brother, Nicky, answered the door. ‘Hey, Ollie!’ he yelled, while racing back into the kitchen. ‘Can’t stop!’
I followed him down the hallway as he whipped open the back door and sped out.
‘Drew’s taking him for a bike ride,’ Steph said, shaking her head. ‘Helmet on first!’ she yelled through the door. ‘Drew – are you watching him?’
‘He’s fine!’ Drew appeared at the door, snaking one arm out to snatch a slice of bacon, grabbing Steph and kissing her when she leant forwards to slap his hand. ‘Relax and enjoy your breakfast.’
‘I’ll relax once you’ve stopped ogling me and are properly watching my brother!’
Drew grinned at me, waggling his eyebrows, before disappearing into the garden.
Having a brother with Down syndrome was the main reason why Steph had waited so long to marry the boy she’d loved since seventeen. She had basically raised Nicky, along with their two brothers, having been adamant that they would escape the future that too many people considered inevitable for mixed-race boys growing up on an estate run by criminals, with empty cupboards, a father in and out of prison and a mother who clung to whatever man would have her. With Jordan now a junior doctor, Simeon studying for a PhD in computer science and Nicky settled in supported accommodation, Steph had pretty much sprinted down the aisle last year.
She made two cappuccinos using the machine I’d bought for a wedding present, and joined me at the table, squeezing her generous curves into the breakfast nook. ‘I thought you might want to talk without Tweedledum and Tweedledee chipping in every two seconds.’
I helped myself to a pancake and a spoonful of scrambled eggs. Steph knew me well enough to decipher the tornado of emotions swirling behind the brief messages I’d sent during the week.
‘Have you spoken to Mark?’ she asked, easing me in with a low-key topic.
I cringed. ‘He avoided me at the library on Thursday, and then sent a text saying that he’d decided to give things another go with his ex. He didn’t want me to feel awkward, because she works in the library and I might see them together.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Yeah. I knew who he meant straight away. She’s one of those really enthusiastic, smiley people who ends every sentence with a question and I sort of already hated her a bit.’
Steph made a scoffing noise. ‘She can have him. Mark was only a practice run, to get you back dating. He was never going to be the man you embark upon the Dream List with.’
I sighed. She was probably right.
‘You know I’m right.’
‘Okay, but whatever Mark might or might not have been, that’s not the point, is it?’
It was Steph’s turn to sigh. ‘What are you going to do? This is not going to get better on its own. She’s not going to get any better if you keep dropping everything whenever she imagines a new twinge.’
I could feel my shoulders hunching over as my internal organs shrank away from this truth.
‘She’s ill!’
‘Yeah, a chronic case of selfish cowitis. Smothering mothering syndrome.’ She used a chunk of crispy bacon to mop up the remains of syrup on her plate.