The Marriage by K.L. Slater (any book recommendations TXT) 📕

there was a cup of tea or coffee provided for her, too. And most importantly, it was nice here. Nice surroundings and people with safe, clean toys.

She looked around her at the quality clothing worn by the other parents. Bridget had on the only coat she owned, a frayed, thin beige mac she’d bought in the Debenhams sale three years ago. Underneath she’d dressed in two T-shirts and a polyester sweater to help keep the cold from sinking into her bones. Her right ankle boot had a small split where the man-made upper met the sole, and so, after the walk over here in the rain and sleet this morning, the bottom of her foot was soaking. She found a seat and reached down, pulling her foot halfway out of the boot to give the sock chance to dry out a little.

Despite the weather, she’d made the twenty-minute trek through the snowy streets from the nearest bus stop because Jesse loved it here so much. Interactions with other kids were a treat when you lived in a crumbling terraced house with mouldy walls on the wrong side of town. And there weren’t any other small children on the street for him to play with.

Bridget watched Jesse now and felt a swell of pride and affection. He had beautiful thick, naturally wavy hair that she liked to keep long in the neck. Today, though, it was damp and frizzy from the weather, and his elasticated-waist trousers were too short for his growing legs. Her heart sank when she realised he bore more than a passing resemblance to a little scarecrow – a cute one admittedly – amongst the well-dressed girls and boys in this middle-class enclave. She’d had to come here, had to escape their grim reality just for a short time. The boost that being part of another world, a better life, gave her – even if it was just for a couple of hours – was priceless to her state of mind.

Settled at last, with Jesse happily running off to play, she looked around for a friendly face. The two women sitting on either side had discreetly turned away from her to talk to other people. Their own sort.

Bridget sat quietly in her soggy coat and boots with her hands folded in her lap and closed her eyes briefly. She hadn’t slept well because the neighbours had had another drink-induced row. Something had smashed against the wall in the early hours and woken her up, but luckily, Jesse had slept through it. Bridget knew that Sandra next door was the self-confessed ‘thrower’ in that relationship, so she had no fear that the other woman was in danger. Living there often made her glad she was single.

She opened her eyes in time to catch the sideways glances being directed her way. She noticed the discreet, almost invisible ushering away of well-dressed sons and daughters from little Jesse, as if being slightly scruffy and obviously poor might be catching.

There was another playgroup, a free one, run by the local council in a draughty, musty-smelling church hall a couple of streets away from their house. All the kids looked like Jesse there; all the mums dressed the same as Bridget. They were people with identical problems and challenges to the ones she had in her own life. She would not have felt judged there.

But she didn’t want that for her son. She wanted him to grow up able to feel at home with different kinds of people. To never feel inferior like she herself had as a child when her troubled mother had dumped her at Aunt Brenda’s house and never returned for her.

She understood now how resentful her aunt must’ve felt, but she’d had a fearsome temper and frequently unleashed her fury on a young, impressionable Bridget for even a minor misdemeanour.

The words Brenda had uttered on the day of Bridget’s mum’s funeral were forever seared into her mind: ‘You’re useless. You’ll never make anything of yourself; you’ll end up just like her. A dirty slut, too old and ugly to be loved.’ That was the last thing her aunt had said before she’d put Bridget into foster care. At fifteen years old she had silently vowed she’d make something of her life. And if only to prove Aunt Brenda wrong, she would start by never growing old and ugly.

Something had clicked into place when she’d made herself that promise, because since that day, Bridget had possessed a kind of conviction that however bleak life looked, she would eventually claw her way up to a better existence for herself and her son. They would enjoy comfort, warmth and security and a nice place to live. She would find a career she loved and work hard at it, and she would eventually find a partner who respected and supported her, instead of settling for one of the local lowlifes, who would only drag her further down.

One day she would have a wardrobe full of the best clothes and look after herself. Most important of all, she’d work hard to stay youthful and never let herself go like her mother had.

Exactly how and when this miraculous shift would occur, she had no idea yet, but the mechanics of it really didn’t matter. For now, trips away from the swamp to nice places like this helped her to keep believing in the dream.

An angry yell broke her out of her reverie, and she turned just in time to catch Jesse tussling with another little boy over a big blue truck. The other boy was shorter than Jesse, but he was stocky and confident and gave as good as he got. Before Bridget had a chance to intervene, the other boy’s mother rushed over.

Unlike most of the other parents here, who looked like they might have lunch plans straight after the playgroup, this woman was what Bridget would call functional. She had unfussy short brown hair and minimal make-up, and she wore well-cut jeans paired