The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

moving in with Crystal, and I still have the kids for more time than he does every week. This house makes me happy, makes me feel secure. Yes, I’m very fortunate. Not every divorce is as amicable as ours was.

I spend a long time in the bath and when I finally wander downstairs, snug in a soft cashmere jumper and my favourite stretchy sweatpants, I feel more relaxed than I have in days. It was lovely to see my friends this morning but it’s equally nice now to have the rest of the day to myself, I think, as I put together a late lunch – a cheese and pickle sandwich, an apple, and a big mug of tea – and sit down in front of the TV. I smile as I pick up the remote, thinking about Ruth and Deborah suddenly appearing at the door earlier, a minute after I got home and a mere three minutes after I’d said goodbye to them outside Sunrise Lodge.

‘Deb suddenly announced she needed an urgent pee just as we left the car park,’ said Ruth, who’d driven them both. ‘And that made me realise I needed to pee too, and we were already on the road, so we thought we’d come here instead as it’s on our way back into town. Sorry!’

I laughed and rolled my eyes as Ruth rushed towards the downstairs loo and Deborah, who’d been dramatically hopping up and down on the doorstep, ran for the stairs. She took ages and Ruth was already back in the car before she scampered back down, but finally they were pulling out of the driveway again, waving at me, and I shut the front door with a sigh and headed up to run my bath.

Now I feel relaxed and contented. There are jobs I could be getting on with – a wall I’ve been meaning to repaint on the landing and some weeding to be done in the garden – but today I just need to recharge my batteries, rest, and take some time to do not very much at all. The kids won’t be back until tomorrow evening so I have all of Sunday to get the chores done and visit Dad, and I refuse to feel guilty about it. But I’ve just taken a big bite of my sandwich while a rerun of an old Come Dine with Me episode is playing on the TV, when the doorbell rings.

‘Damn it!’ I swear softly through a mouthful of sourdough.

Who on earth is that? Probably just a delivery.

I swallow and heave myself off the sofa, checking my face for crumbs as I pass the big mirror in the hall. When I open the door, a woman is standing there, a large red holdall slung over her shoulder.

‘Hi,’ I say. I don’t recognise her and wait expectantly to see what she wants.

She hesitates for a moment, looking at me. Then: ‘Beth,’ she says.

I frown, starting to feel embarrassed.

So she knows me … Is she something to do with the school, maybe? I have no idea. This is awkward.

‘Erm … yes, but sorry, I don’t … What can I help you with?’ I ask.

Is she selling something, maybe? Is that why she has the big bag over her shoulder …?

She’s staring at me now, not saying anything, just looking. She’s about my height, older though. Late fifties at a guess, with short blonde hair and a slick of berry-coloured lipstick. She raises a hand as if to shake mine, then seems to change her mind and drops it to her side again, and I suddenly realise that she’s trembling slightly. There is a faint tremor running through her body and a tiny nerve twitching in her cheek.

‘Beth … it’s me.’

She whispers the words, her face reddening, and I feel myself blushing too because I still have no idea who she is, and this is just so … so uncomfortable.

‘I’m sorry, I just can’t think …’ I stammer, but now she’s bending forwards slightly, sliding the heavy bag off her shoulder, and as she leans down to sit it on the ground the neckline of the loose jumper she’s wearing under a dark coat slips forward and I see a small tattoo on her collar bone. Three little stars. Something catches in my throat.

Three little stars. One star for her, one for Dad, one for me.

I gasp.

But it can’t be … can it? It’s not possible.

My legs suddenly feel weak and I grab the doorframe for support. She’s straightening up now and I see there are tears in her eyes. She reaches out again, touching my arm this time. She’s still trembling, her fingers sliding down my sleeve to grasp my hand, her skin warm on mine.

‘Beth,’ she whispers again. ‘It’s me. I’m so sorry.’

And finally, I say it. I say the word I’ve longed to say for so many years to the person I’ve longed so desperately to say it to.

‘Mum? Mum?’

Chapter 8

We sit and stare, drinking each other in. The last few minutes are a blur: my mother on my doorstep (my mother!), me whimpering like a child, dragging her into my arms, both of us crying and laughing and talking at the same time. Me pulling her inside, the door closing behind us, the two of us collapsing onto the sofa, gripping each other’s hands, touching each other’s faces, unable to believe that this is happening, that this is real.

Now we have moved apart a little but our fingers are still entwined, our eyes fixed on each other’s faces. She has changed – of course she has … it’s been three decades after all, and all I’ve had for all those years is one faded photograph and my own hazy memories of her face. I stare at her, looking for shades of the young woman I remember in this face that is looking back at me so intently, eyes still shining with tears. The blonde hair, flecked with grey now