**Gather Glass in Your Own Garden**
“Youre a fool, Emily, a proper fool! That Simon of yours will leave you homeless one day! Hasnt he put you through enough?” Mum never minced her words when it came to her son-in-law.
“Mum, Simon and I have been together thirty-seven years, and youve spent every single one of them warning me about him! Please, just stay out of it!” My voice cracked down the phone for the hundredth time.
I avoided seeing her too oftenher script never changed: my husband was a scoundrel, a rogue. I was tired of arguing, even if there was a sliver of truth in it.
Once, in our younger days, I left Simonmy own fault, really. We had a five-year-old son, Oliver. The row had been vicious. I ended up in hospital with a concussion, thinking it was the end. Divorce loomed, the label of single mother. After discharge, I went to MumsOliver had stayed with her while I was laid up.
She sighed heavily, delivering her verdict:
“Tell me I was wrong. Thats not a husband, thats a monster! Stay here. Dad and I will help you raise Oliver.”
“Ill think about it,” I mumbled, exhausted, unsure.
“Nothing to think about! That brute will kill the boy next! I wont let you go back!” Her voice sharpened, as though shed bolt the door shut if she could.
Mum had despised Simon from the start. Never approved. Shed even hidden my dowry”Let your precious fiancé clothe and feed you.”
A week later, Simon arrived, head hung low. Mum barred the door, spat venom, and slammed it in his face. I only learned of it laterId been out walking Oliver at the time.
After a month of stewing, I decided to return. Couples quarrel, but they share the same bed in the end. I loved Simon, always had. Thered never been another man for me.
I plotted how to see him. Winter was comingperfect excuse to fetch our coats.
I sneaked Oliver out, went home. Simon was stunned, overjoyed. The family reunited. Mum fumed.
Truth was, Mum and I never clashed otherwise. Kind, caring, a wonderful womanbut there was a skeleton in her cupboard. A dusty corner.
At fourteen, Id found her diary buried in the attic junk. Id needed a globe for geography class, knocked over a pile of magazinesthere it was. A pretty notebook. I sat, flipped it open. God, I wish I hadnt.
Turns out, after I was born, I was sent straight to a childrens home. No shortage of relatives, yet Father had refused me: “How do I know you didnt get charged up by someone else?” The man who raised me wasnt my blood. Mum wrote of hard times, swore shed fetch me soon.
Back then, shed lived in a village where walls had ears. Scandal clung to unwed mothers. A year later, my aunt shamed the family into taking me back.
That evening, I confronted her. She didnt read a wordjust tore the diary to shreds. But Id seen it all.
From then on, a wall grew between us, high and unyielding. I seethed, betrayed. The threads binding mother and daughter snapped for good.
I vowed then: my children would know only their true parents. No stepfathers, no stepmothers.
Simon, sensing Mums hatred, suggested another child”She wont drag two kids away.” I agreed.
Paul was born. Mum raged on:
“Oh, Emily, that tyrants shackled you with another! Youre a fool to trust him! That dog strays left and right. Youll regret itmark my words…”
She wasnt wrong. Simon was a charmer, slippery as an eel. Women clung to him like wet leaves.
The day I landed in hospital, wed fought over some brazen girl. Shed waltzed into our house, certain I was at workbut Id left early, headache pounding.
I walked in, saw what no wife wants to see.
There they were, half-dressed in the bedroom, champagne in hand. I stood, arms akimbo, blocking the door.
The girl snatched her clothes, shoved me asideI fell backward, cracked my skull. Concussion. Simon quieted for a while. But his Don Juan list grew: colleagues, old flames, strangers. You cant cage the wind. Still, I thanked fate hed fathered no bastards. That wouldve been a proper mess.
Years later, Oliver repeated historya mistress, a secret daughter. His lawful wife and child knew nothing. Children suffer their parents sins. Hed watched his fathers affairs and taken notes.
Ill never grasp what Mum wants. Once youve married off your daughter, the jobs done. Dont cut tiesvisit, dote on grandchildren. But unsought advice is a cart before the horse.
Let adults stew in their own juice, bruise their knees, sand down their edges. Its their life!
As my gran used to say:
“Gather glass in your own garden.”
The generational clash never dies. We tread the same rakes, deaf to sense.
Mum and I havent spoken in three years. A silent stalemate. She tells anyone wholl listen that her son-in-law isnt fit to lick my boots.
Mummaybe I deserve exactly this man?
I want no other.
