Damp autumn leaves swirled around my feet in their last dance of the season. Their time was almost over. By the end of the day they would be picked up by road-sweepers and turned into mulch. I reflected upon my life, and the need to take control. I felt tender, at the mercy of my hormones. I hadn’t spoken to my mother properly in years. I’d tried to visit them last Christmas, but I’d lacked the courage to follow it through. Instead, I’d observed her from my vantage point on the stone bridge over the canal near their home. She was with her new family now, and I felt a pang of jealousy as the three of them pulled into the driveway in their car. They had just bought a Christmas tree, and the lilt of their laughter carried on the air as my stepdad tried to drag it in through the front door. I watched as my mother put her arm around her stepdaughter Jenny’s shoulders, chattering as they entered the house. Who was I to invade such a happy scene? Mam deserved peace, not retribution. That day, I turned on my heel and left.
Then she left me a voicemail, asking why I hadn’t turned up. I deleted it from my phone. But discovering I was pregnant changed everything. I could not ignore Mam’s visit to Dublin, and so here I was. My heart faltered as I caught sight of her in the coffee shop, sitting near the window with her back turned to me. Part of me wanted to run away, but she had come here specifically to see me. My legs carried on, and before I knew it, the bell was dinging over the door to announce my arrival.
The coffee shop was busy, bustling with people seeking respite from the cold. Mam turned to face me, looking as nervous as I was . . . looking like me. Her blonde hair was streaked with natural silver highlights, cut into a shoulder-length choppy style. I looked her up and down; she was only in her fifties but her relationship with alcohol had aged her face. She looked smart in her black shift dress and court shoes. I walked towards her, rigid as she took me in for a hug. It was awkward and horrible, too soon for contact, and I had to force myself to sit down. She quickly recovered, ordering me tea and some Victoria sponge, despite me saying I didn’t want food. My stomach felt like a butter churn going at full pelt.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, and through her false cheerfulness I caught a sniff of her favourite scent – Obsession by Calvin Klein. I knew it was reserved for special occasions. Coming here would have been a big deal for her; she didn’t get along with big cities or busy public transport.
‘It’s not far for me,’ I said, feeling like a teenager: my old sullen self, staring at my hands. I caught sight of a piece of broken nail and frowned as I picked it away before it could snag another pair of tights.
‘I don’t blame you for being angry,’ she said, after we’d exhausted our small talk. Her hands were cupped around her mug as if she was clinging to a life raft. ‘I’ve been a terrible mother.’
Finally, I met her gaze, saw the sincerity in her eyes. She meant it, at least for now. But then she always did, in moments of sobriety. The calm before the storm.
‘How long have you been sober?’ It was the first time I’d openly asked her about her drinking. My words hung in the air like a line of dirty washing, flapping in her face.
‘Three years, three months and twenty-one days,’ she said immediately. ‘Not that I’m counting.’
An awkward laugh followed. I did not join in. Three years was no time at all.
‘Things happened in my childhood that I’m still dealing with. But there’s a time in your life when you have to stop being a victim,’ Mam continued. ‘When you take back control.’
I nodded. Who was I to deny her that? I reminded myself that she was trying, but I also recalled her dark side and the sting of her words.
‘I fell apart after your father left, turning to drink instead of asking for help. It wasn’t your fault. He turned his back on both of us. He wasn’t ready for the responsibility.’