“Pick Up Your Own Broken Glass”
“You’re a right daft one, Emily, absolute pudding-brain! That Simon of yours will leave you high and drymark my words! Hasnt he put you through enough already?” Mum never minced words when it came to her son-in-law.
“Mum, Simon and I have been married for 37 years, and youve spent every single one of them warning me off him! Please, just stay out of it!” I shouted into the phone for what felt like the hundredth time.
Id started avoiding her calls because, honestly, the conversation never strayed far from her favourite topicwhat a worthless scoundrel my husband was. Arguing back was exhausting, even if, deep down, I knew there was a grain of truth in it.
Back in our younger days, after a particularly vicious row, Id stormed off to Mums with our five-year-old, Oliver. Simon and I had gone at it hammer and tongs, and Id ended up in A&E with a concussion. I was convinced that was itdivorce papers next, then single motherhood. After I was discharged, I went straight to Mums, where Oliver had been staying while I was laid up.
Mum heaved a sigh like the world was ending and declared, “See? I told you he was a brute! Stay here. Your dad and I will help you get back on your feet.”
“Ill think about it,” I muttered, too tired to argue.
“Thinkings got nothing to do with it! That monster might turn on Oliver next! I wont let you go back!” She might as well have bolted the door with an iron bar.
Mum had hated Simon from the startloathed him like expired milk. Shed even hidden my wedding trousseau out of spite. “Let your precious fiancé clothe and feed you if hes so wonderful.”
A week later, Simon showed up, cap in hand, begging forgiveness. Mum slammed the door in his face before he could get a word in. I only found out hed come when Simon told me laterId been out with Oliver, blissfully unaware.
After a month of stewing, I decided to go back. Married life isnt all roses, but as they say, “Those who fight and run away may live to fight another day.” Besides, I loved Simonalways had, always would. He was my first and only.
So I hatched a plan. Winter was comingperfect excuse to fetch our coats. Sneaking off with Oliver when Mum wasnt looking, I went home.
Simon was over the moon. The family was back together. Mum? Furious.
Truth be told, Mum and I never really clashedshe was kind, doting, wonderful. But there was one skeleton in her closet.
When I was fourteen, rummaging through the attic for a geography globe, an old journal tumbled out. Curiosity got the better of me. Oh, how I wish it hadnt.
Turns out, Id been handed straight to a childrens home after birthdespite having a houseful of relatives. My “father” had refused to claim me, snarling, “How do I know you werent knocked up by some bloke down the pub?” The man who raised me wasnt even my real dad. Mum had scribbled in that diary about “hard times” and how shed fetch me soon.
Back then, shed lived in a village where everyone minded everyone elses business. A baby out of wedlock? Scandal. A year later, my aunt shamed the lot of them into taking me back.
That night, I confronted Mum. Without reading a wordshe knew every line by heartshe tore the diary to shreds. Too late. Id already seen it all.
From then on, an invisible wall rose between us. I never forgave her. The anger festered like bad jam.
Thats why I swore Oliver would grow up with both parentsno stepmums or stepdads.
Simon, sensing Mums hatred, suggested another baby”She wont drag two kids away.” I didnt argue.
When little Henry arrived, Mum was apoplectic. “Oh, Emily, that tyrants gone and tied you down with another! Youre blind, girl. Hes cheating left and right! Mark my words, youll regret it.”
Well, she wasnt wrong. Simon was a right charmerhandsome, silver-tongued, and utterly incapable of resisting a pretty face. Women stuck to him like wet leaves in autumn.
The day I got that concussion? Id caught him with some brazen minx in our bedroom, both half-dressed and sipping champagne. She bolted past me so fast she knocked me clean over. Crackstraight to A&E. Simon behaved for a while.
There were otherscolleagues, old flames, strangers. You cant cage the wind. Still, I thanked my lucky stars hed never fathered any bastards. That wouldve been a proper mess.
Fast forward, and Olivers gone and got himself a side-piece with a daughterwhile still married with his own little girl. History repeats itself, doesnt it?
Ill never understand Mum. Once your childs grown and wed, your jobs done. Be there, help, dote on the grandkidsbut keep your opinions to yourself unless asked. Let adults make their own mistakes.
As my gran used to say, “Tend your own garden.”
Some clashes never end. Were all just marching in circles, refusing to listen.
Mum and I havent spoken in three years. Were locked in this silent standoff while she tells anyone wholl listen that her daughter married beneath her.
But maybejust maybeSimons exactly the man I deserve.
I wouldnt have it any other way.
