Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
My mum knows I’ve taken antidepressants in the past but, beyond that, we’ve never really talked about it. I’ve never felt able, or even wanted, to discuss anything of any real emotional importance with my mother. I can’t say for sure if it’s her issue or mine.
She’s a good mum. She loves me, of that I have no doubt. I had a good childhood, never went without. But like a lot of people, she can be judgemental. I don’t think it’s necessarily intentional. I actually think she sees herself as quite open-minded, but nevertheless I’ve grown up listening to her comment on the news, celebrity gossip, neighbourhood rumours, with phrases like, “Suicide is selfish.” “They don’t know how good they’ve got it.” “How can they be depressed when there are children dying in the world?” And her personal, and most used, favourite, “He/she needs to snap out of it.”
She’s not a bad person, possibly all talk. I’m sure she’d never voice her views outside the family. Most people only air their honest opinions, judge things they’ve no experience with, to people they’re close to. Would she react differently if she knew one of those ‘selfish’ strangers she mocks was her own son? Possibly, but I have no intentions of finding out.
I stand up to greet her. “Ah, so that’s what my youngest son looks like,” she says, pressing her hands to my cheeks.
“Sorry, Mum.” I kiss her cheek. “I’ve been busy with the company.”
Smiling, she releases me and bends down to Isobel who’s just ran in from the kitchen.
“Nanna!” Isobel sings, wrapping her little arms around my mother’s legs. “Did you bring chocolate?”
“Isobel!” Max scolds.
It doesn’t faze her. “Nanna always brings chocolate.”
Her vocabulary stuns me. It hasn’t been that long since I last saw her but the development is remarkable. She’s more fluent, clearer, than I remember.
My mother winks and reaches into her coat pocket, pulling out a bag of chocolate buttons. Isobel practically rips them from Mum’s fingers and starts opening the packet.
“You can have them after dinner,” Max says, taking the bag from her.
Isobel pouts. “But Nanna said!”
“Carry on and you won’t get them at all.”
“Oh, Max.” Our mum tuts. “Don’t be so hard on her. She’s only three.”
I witness the battle on Max’s expression as he fights the urge to roll his eyes or, worse, tell her to stop being an interfering mare. It makes me smile.
“Yeah, Dad. I’m only three. God sake.”
“Izzy!” Max is wearing his angry face and I have to turn away so he can’t see me laughing. The kid is bloody adorable.
“Izzy, honey,” my mum begins, taking her little hand in hers. “Why don’t we go help Mummy in the kitchen?”
She does it to stop Max disciplining Isobel for her attitude, and when they’re out of sight, he releases the eye roll he’s been holding.
“Deep breaths,” I say, snickering.
“Pisses me off,” he whispers. “Last week she actually stormed out of the house, tears and everything, because I shouted and made Izzy cry. The little sod had a tantrum and threw a toy at the TV in our bedroom. Cracked the screen. What the hell did she expect me to do? Give her a cuddle and a pat on the bleedin’ back?”
I can’t help find the whole tale highly amusing.
“It was all an act for Mum’s benefit too. She knows exactly how to play her nanna. I swear, she got over herself and started pretending to be a cat before Mum had even driven off the driveway.”
“Mums are supposed to interfere,” I say, still smiling. “Think it’s the law.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Laura calls out, and so I turn around to make my way to the dining room.
“James,” Max says, his voice low as he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “This is the last time I’ll mention it, I promise. I know you don’t like talking about it, but you would if you were struggling, right?”
No. I force a smile. “Yes,” I assure him, patting his hand. He removes it from my shoulder and nods. I can’t quite tell if he believes me, but it doesn’t really matter. I feel great. I’ve got this.
My stomach growls when the smell of shepherd’s pie assaults my nose. I didn’t realise I was hungry until Laura places a generous plateful in front of me. It’s my first decent meal in, probably, a couple of weeks, and I tuck in eagerly.
“Mummy,” Isobel says, half way through the meal, huffing like a stroppy teenager. “I’ve told you I don’t like peas.” She’s a bossy little madam and she knows how to work it, putting her hands on her hips and making everyone laugh. The funniest part is she’s already eaten half of them.
“Well if you don’t eat your peas that must mean you’re full,” Max says. “And if you’re full, you mustn’t want your chocolate buttons.”
“Oh, Max,” Mum interrupts. “You should never force a child to eat something they don’t like.”
That statement would be less amusing if she hadn’t done the exact same thing when we were kids. To this day, she gets in a bad mood if you don’t clear your plate. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve heard, “I don’t know why I bother standing for hours making food when no bugger eats it.”
“She does like them,” Max says. “She’s just acting up.”
“I’m only three, Dad.”
God help my brother when Isobel hits puberty. I daren’t even imagine how big her attitude will be then.
We carry on eating and Isobel finishes her peas without another word. When Laura brings in apple pie and custard for dessert, Isobel starts telling us all what she wants for her birthday, which is eight whole months away.
“Spiderman?” I question. “I thought you like Hulk?”
“Spiderman’s sick,” she says, shooting imaginary webs from the palm of her hand.
“She reminds me so much of James,” Mum says. It makes my smile fade. “He’s never been able to make his mind up either. I’ve lost count of all the silly ideas he’s come up with in his life.”