Chapter 2
My mother’s offer to pay for a stay at an exclusive Italian spa hasn’t been mentioned again, thankfully. My dad knows when to give it a rest.
And Simon, as always, is against anything that could possibly put him in a position of responsibility towards the kids. If I leave for eight weeks, who the hell is going to take my place in the kitchen?
To think that when we started dating at uni, my friends had warned me about not jumping headlong into such a serious relationship.
I was young and in a great hurry to get my life back on track, so Simon and I had started dating immediately, as if there was no tomorrow.
We saw each other every day, and soon it became all day.
By the end of the month, he had practically moved in with me, taking the place of my roommate, who left me with a tender warning: ‘Don’t let him take over your life, Olivia… ’
If only I’d listened.
As the months rolled by, he was able to take all his classes and take all of his exams as I, burdened by housework and meal prepping and grocery shopping, had started to lag behind in my studies.
When I’d mentioned it to him, he was very apologetic, telling me that he was sorry he’d taken me for granted, and of course he certainly didn’t think that I was there to facilitate his success at the cost of my own.
So he started helping out more until we got back on an even keel and I resumed my studies.
As behind as I was, I had spoken to the Director of Studies, who assured me that I would be okay if I maintained my new pace.
And then, at twenty years of age, despite being on the pill, I fell pregnant. Again. More on that later.
Despite my trepidation, Simon was absolutely over the moon at the news of my pregnancy. He said he’d always wanted a family, but never thought that he’d be lucky enough to find a girl who would want to start so early. Whichever way he looked at it, it was a win for him.
Not to mention that his parents would be absolutely thrilled and willing to help financially – his father owned a law firm that he could work in while finishing his studies.
And when he got his degree, they would immediately fast-track him to junior partner.
Which meant that between studying and working like mad, the next two years were pretty much sorted for him.
In one lucky stroke, he’d obtained everything he’d always wanted.
But what about me? Whichever way I looked at it, for me it was a losing situation.
I certainly wasn’t ready for a baby at my age, halfway through an Arts degree!
But there was also no way I could do what I’d already done once again.
Because ending my pregnancy the first time had nearly killed me emotionally.
There was absolutely nothing I could do. I was trapped.
In a sense, I was reliving my father’s life.
When my mother left, he’d had no choice but to roll up his sleeves and do his damned best to be there with his quality presence: feeding me, making sure I was clean and tidy, supervising homework, coming up to say good night and listening to my endless complaints about Mum leaving.
He had been through so much, if my memories were anything to go by.
All week, Dad made breakfast and took me to school, and prepared tea and helped me with my homework when I got back.
All the while Mum stayed in bed, hour after hour.
I wondered if she was really sick. She had to be, not to badger me into practising our song.
Music was her life. And in turn, it had become mine.
Singing was everything to me. It was my biggest joy.
It cheered me up when I was down. But we hadn’t practised in weeks and I was getting a bit rusty.
One afternoon, I knocked on her door. ‘Mum? Are you all right? Can I come in?’
But she didn’t answer. She didn’t even turn to look at me as I poked my head through the door. The room was dark and smelt musty, as if she hadn’t opened the window in days. The sheets were rumpled and there was an untouched bowl of tomato soup next to her on the bedside table.
‘Mum?’
Still nothing. Then:
‘The phone…’ she whispered. ‘Who was it?’
‘No one, Mum. No one’s called. Can I get you anything?’
She didn’t answer, only stared out ahead of her. I’d never seen her like this before and it frightened me. What if she was ill? What if she died? Who was going to take care of me? Dad worked all day; he couldn’t manage on his own for ever.
Every hour or so I’d go in and check on her, hoping that she’d be better, perhaps even sitting up reading a book. But nothing.
She slept for three more days without another word.
‘Is Mum going to get better for the talent show?’ I finally asked my father on Sunday morning over my crumpets. ‘It’s next week…’
I felt guilty for asking something so selfish, but my reputation at school was at stake.
‘Of course, pet,’ he reassured me, squeezing my hand. ‘Mum’ll be right as rain soon, you’ll see.’
But it wasn’t all right after that. I had no way of knowing what she was up to.
Whenever I think back on that time, I can confidently say that there is no way that I am going to pull a Susan on my kids.
Even if I do feel I am just about ready to snap, always a moment away from bursting into tears for God knows what reason.
The kids are healthy and don’t want for anything.
I know I desperately need some time to myself.
And I will take some time off as soon as it’s feasible.
Just not right now. And not on my mother’s tab.
And as far as people I can trust with my family, I know that if I asked Markus, he’d step into the breach.
He practically is family, and probably spends more time here than he does at his own house.
He always finds the time to kick a ball around with Joe long after we’ve finished work and to have a quiet word with Cassie when she goes off on one of her teenage rants against me.
I guess I deserve it. Cassie is simply following in my footsteps as an angry girl, part of a chain reaction passed down from my mother to me, and now me to her.
We are all connected inasmuch as we are both impatient towards our mothers, albeit for different reasons.
I am nothing like my mother, yet Cassie always finds reasons to despise me.
I had always thought it was classic teenage girl behaviour, but now I’m beginning to wonder: is she ever going to have a conversation with me that doesn’t include monosyllabic answers punctuated by eyerolls?
It hurts me so much to see my baby, my first-born, reject me.
I have lived, breathed and dreamt the idea of Baby Cassie.
Toddler Cassie. Child Cassie. Adolescent Cassie.
Through every stage of her life, every step of the way, I have been there for her.
And yet, there is something in her heart that won’t let her love me as much as I’d like.
Am I making this all about me? Am I being petulant, selfish, pouty because she doesn’t feel the same way I feel about her? It’s a mother’s nature to love her kids more than they love her, isn’t it? So then why am I feeling hard done by?
Are we ever going to become, I’m not saying friends, of course, because mother and daughter should remain as such, in my opinion, but when, or perhaps it’s better to say if, she grows out of this, will she ever be able to love me again?
Will I ever know what lies in the deepest, darkest layers of her heart and her soul?
Will she be happy one day, will she figure it out, or will she be one of those people who never get over the tough times and stay forever bitter?
I realise I’ve just described myself. I am the same with my own mother. I can’t get over Cassie’s lack of love for me because I wanted to have the kind of relationship with her that I never got to have with my own mother. But I suppose you can’t force these things.
I had hoped that all the love I thought my mother had for me hadn’t been lost for ever.
I had always hoped to recoup it and relive it, like a precious memory, a special memento like a ballerina in a music box.
All I had to do if I was feeling lonely was to open that box and be inundated by the sweetness.
But it never happened. My relationship with my mother had deteriorated for ever.
Perhaps I was asking too much of my teenager to live that unconditional love through her.
What does she know about silent grudges that fester over a lifetime?
Of unrequited feelings of a daughter’s love?
She is well-loved, even if she refuses to act like it.
I never got the choice. And this is what makes me angry: that I am giving Cassie everything I never had. But I’m still not good enough. Just like I wasn’t good enough for my mother to choose us over a man.
I know that I’ve got a lot of baggage to sort out, but Cassie is my daughter and she is my priority.
How can I not worry about her? How can I not worry that we’re destined to become just like my mother and me?
That is my worst nightmare. I worry about this more than anything else.
And it’s getting so bad that I’m almost afraid to talk to her in case I make things worse.
Mothers shouldn’t be afraid to talk to their daughters, right?
Besides being my personal music teacher on her good days, my mother never really talked to me if not to tell me to sit up straight or I’d get scoliosis, to not talk with my mouth full and to keep my voice down.
I followed this advice steadfastly and have done very well for myself, all things considered.