on the phone I have to go, saving my document, tidying the papers on my desk that manage to spread over every available surface, every day, and joining my delicious daughter in the kitchen to finally be the mother I always hoped I would be.
* * *
Every day, after school, I sit at the kitchen table and marvel at the child I have created, this person who is, in looks, a combination of both me and my ex-husband, but in personality is all her own.
I would like to tell you I knew what her personality was from the beginning, but the truth is, for a very long time I never bothered to stop and look. For a very long time, the only thing I cared about was numbing everything in my life with alcohol, and as ashamed as I am to admit it, it wasn’t until I got divorced that I finally woke up and realized the mess my life had become.
Of course, I recognize the irony of writing feature after feature about divorce, and feature after feature about being a single mother, and even—yes, I will admit this—a first-person piece in the Daily Mail about the shame of being a mother who drank, which, by the way, garnered over a thousand comments online, almost all of them filled with a vitriol and hatred that felt like someone was twisting a knife in my stomach. There I was, trying to be honest, to own my part in it, to admit my sins in the hope that I would emerge renewed, and all those people could see was my deficiencies, what a terrible mother I’d been, what a terrible person I was.
Well, duh. Tell me something else I didn’t know. My sponsor had warned me about writing the piece, but I went ahead and did it anyway. You are only as sick as your secrets, I had heard, over and over in AA meetings, and I knew I could only be properly cleansed if I told my secrets.
I had this grandiose notion of helping people, that if I was honest there would be tons of women reading my story who would realize the mess they were in too, might be inspired to do something about it.
There were a few. But the notes thanking me, sharing their own stories, washed over my head while the criticisms and insults lodged their way into my heart. At least for a week or so. Since then, I’ve learned first of all not to reveal quite so much of myself in my articles, and secondly not to read the bloody comments.
“So how was school?” I ask, sliding gingersnaps onto a plate and watching her devour them as soon as the plate hits the table.
“Do you want an apple?” I slide the fruit bowl over, seeing her grimace. “You’re having dinner with your dad tonight, so don’t fill up now.”
“Oh, yeah. He texted me. He’s picking me up at four thirty. We’re going to Cara’s sister’s for dinner.” She rolls her eyes, and I am secretly glad, although pained as well, at how difficult this new girlfriend of her father’s is for her. And for me.
“How was school?” I change the subject, resisting the temptation to quiz her, as I sometimes do, about Cara, and her family, and the general all-round horribleness of her.
Annie shrugs. “Fine. But Lucy’s being a bitch again.”
“Oh God.” I do wonder if I should berate her for her language, but it’s not like I’m a paragon of virtue in that arena, so I let it slide. “What’s happened now?” Lucy is her best frenemy. They are either as thick as thieves, together all the time, or they hate each other. Lucy is one of the popular girls, so Annie has to vie with others for her attention. I see her open up in the sunshine glow of Lucy’s gaze, shrink with despondency when Lucy chooses to shine her glow elsewhere.
Not that my daughter is entirely innocent. I am quite sure Annie is not the easiest person to be friends with—she is demanding and all-consuming—but Lucy, girls like Lucy, have always scared me a little, and I would so love for Annie to find a different set of friends, girls who are a little less glamorous, a little less compelling, a little more ordinary and stable.
“I went to sit with her and Mary at lunch and they started whispering about me and giggling. I hate her.”
“I’m sorry, darling. Could you sit with Pippa