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

and how the three of you met after you all moved into your little estate. And I just happened to mention that they were both a lot older than you – more my age really – and then Brenda said, or was it Barbara, I can’t remember, one of them anyway, well she said …’ She pauses, her eyes on mine.

I wait, my breath catching in my throat.

‘Well, she said, and I’m paraphrasing here, but she said something like “yes, we always thought it was odd she hasn’t got any friends of her own age. We just hang out with her because we feel sorry for her, really.”’

She pauses again, and my eyes widen.

‘They said … they said they feel sorry for me? But …’

She’s nodding.

‘Yes, and then she, whichever one it was, said “We always felt she was looking for a mother figure, and now you’re back that takes the pressure off us. You can take over now.” Something like that – I’m paraphrasing, as I said. “We can back off a bit now,” she said. And then they both laughed. And I just thought, well, that’s not very nice, is it? When you’re meant to be friends? I just thought you should know, darling. I’m sorry. I know it’s not a pleasant thing to hear.’

I’m staring at her, stunned. OK, a little bit relieved too, that she hasn’t just said what I feared she might. But this?

Did they really say something so … so horrible?

‘I can’t … I can’t believe that,’ I stammer. ‘We’re friends. We have been since the beginning. Yes, they’re both older than me, but so what? It was never about me looking for a mother figure. That’s ridiculous. I just liked them. We’re neighbours. We get on really well. I don’t understand …’

Tears spring to my eyes.

We’re the Busy Bees; we’re a little threesome. We’re friends, aren’t we?

Mum is handing me her napkin, telling me to wipe my eyes, and saying she’s so sorry and she probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, shouldn’t have said anything, but my mind is racing.

Maybe they’re right. All my closest friends are older than me, not just Brenda and Barbara, but Ruth and Deborah too, all of them closer to Mum’s age than to mine. Maybe it’s true. Maybe that is why I was drawn to them. Maybe I’m a freak with some sort of mother complex. Have I just been subconsciously looking for my mother in every older woman I’ve met? Shit. No wonder they just feel sorry for me …

‘Are you OK, love? I feel so bad I’ve ruined our lovely morning now. I’m so sorry.’

Mum sounds as if she’s on the verge of tears herself and I sniff, take a deep breath, and pull myself together.

‘Mum, it’s fine. If that’s how they feel, honestly … I’m fine. I’m glad you told me, seriously. Come on, let’s forget it. Do you want to walk down to the shop with me? We’re out of milk.’

‘Of course. Sorry again, love.’

I wave a hand dismissively, but I’m fighting back the tears as we make the short journey down to the village shop and back. As we reach my front gate, my heart sinks. Next door, Brenda is standing at her open front door, chatting to Barbara.

‘Uh-oh,’ I mutter.

‘Oh dear,’ says Mum. ‘Look, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll head in.’

She hurries towards the house and I hesitate at the gate for a moment, wondering how to play this. Do I pretend everything is fine and just give them a cheery wave across the wall? Or do I go round and say something, confront them about what they said? Do I just ignore them maybe? I’m hovering, still undecided, when Brenda glances across and catches my eye. For a few, horribly awkward seconds we just stare at each other, then Barbara’s head turns too and now we’re all looking at each other, and nobody’s smiling and it’s … it’s awful.

They must know, I think. They must know that Mum will have told me what they said about me. They must know I’m feeling hurt and upset. And they’re not going to apologise, or even acknowledge it? Well, sod that.

Suddenly, I’m angry. I turn away abruptly and walk towards the front door and I don’t look back.

Fine. If I’m such a burden, if they want my mum to take over now, fine. Just bloody fine.

I’m still upset though, although I do my best to hide it from Mum. In the end, we have a pleasant day – the afternoon is dry and sunny, and I potter around the garden, pulling up weeds and pruning some unruly shrubs, while Mum sits on the patio with her magazines. When it gets a little too chilly to stay outside, we go in and I settle Mum in front of the TV and then pop over to the hospital to check on Dad. He’s fine – a little more alert than yesterday even, which lifts my mood – and when I get back I feel a tiny bit better. I join Mum on the sofa and we search the movie channels and end up watching Gilda. I’ve never seen it, but Mum’s ecstatic.

‘Oh, this is amazing!’ she says. ‘One of the classic black and white films. Rita Hayworth is just stunning.’

It is good – a casino, mobsters, and lots of 1940s glamour – although I’m finding it hard to concentrate and keep drifting off into my thoughts. I try to tell myself I’m OK but I’m still hurting. After staying up so late last night we decide to make tonight an early one, and I’m in my bedroom by ten. I wasn’t in the mood for cooking anything elaborate for dinner so I raided the freezer and cobbled together a quick meal of oven chips, fish fingers, and salad, Mum insisting I had most of the chips and me not in the right state of mind to argue.

Now though, as I slowly peel off my clothes,