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

face anyone. Jacob texts me brief updates about the children, and I’ve spoken to Finley on the phone, once or twice – short, awkward conversations that break my heart. My little boy sounds confused: he tells me he loves me but when I whisper, ‘Do you want to come home? Tell Daddy, if you do,’ he responds that no, he likes it here, and that Crystal might be getting a dog, a white cockapoo, and how exciting that would be. His ankle is much better, apparently, and he’ll soon be playing football again; he’s happy about that too. Eloise still won’t speak to me at all though, and every day that she refuses to do so makes me shrink a little more into myself, into my misery. Into the bottle.

I’ve been trying to keep busy, trying to keep on top of the housework, not wanting Mum to do it all, but I’ve even struggled with that. I potter aimlessly around, occasionally summoning up the energy to put a wash on or water some houseplants, but it all seems to leave me exhausted. The other day I found the plastic bag of books Nadia returned stuffed into the hall cupboard. I took them as far as the lounge bookshelf, only to find that the effort required to put them back in their correct place (my shelves are organised alphabetically, by author) was too much for me, so I simply stacked them on a side table instead. It’s pathetic, I know, but I don’t know how to fix myself. And so I just drift along, somehow getting through each day, each minute.

Now, I sit here huddled in the corner of the sofa. The daylight is fading and the far corners of the room are already shrouded in darkness, but I can’t even be bothered to get up to switch the lamps on. I take a long swallow from the wine glass on the table in front of me and think about how incredibly, how dramatically, life has changed for me. It’s not even two months since Mum came back, since those wonderful early days of our reunion, before my life started to slowly, inexorably fall apart. And tonight I’m completely alone, for Mum’s gone too – although not for long, she promised, as she hugged me goodbye earlier.

‘My friend Gloria is sick, and she’s been such a support to me over the years, love. She’s going to be OK, but she’s having an op on Monday and she doesn’t have a partner or any children; I don’t want her to be on her own when she wakes up. I need to go back to Cornwall, just for a few days. You’ll be fine, won’t you? Just promise me you won’t drink too much. I’m worried about you, Beth …’

I’d flushed at that. I’d thought I’d managed to hide my increased alcohol intake from her, pouring the wine into coloured beakers or coffee mugs for sneaky slugs during the day, topping up my glass in the evening when she nips to the loo, thinking she won’t notice. I should have known better. She’s not stupid. I’m the stupid one.

I dread being alone. I dread rattling around in this sad, empty house, but I’m glad she’s having a break. It hasn’t been easy for her, dealing with me over the past couple of weeks – my moodiness, my tears. I’ve noticed the new shadows under her eyes darkening and an unaccustomed slowness to her step. She’s tired, wrung out with it all, and it will do her good to get away for a few days. My great fear, when she told me she was leaving, was that this was it; that she was going for good, that it was all too much; that finding me, her daughter, had not been at all what she’d hoped for; that she wanted no further part of it all. But before I could spiral into despair she said something so unexpected that I almost laughed.

‘When I come back, I want us to have a party, love.’

‘A … a party? Did you say a party?’

‘Yes.’ She was checking her handbag as she spoke, putting reading glasses and keys into the side pocket. ‘It’s my birthday on Thursday, my sixtieth. And I don’t want much – don’t want to think about it really. Me sixty, good grief! But I’d like a small party, and I know that’s probably the last thing you want to think about right now, but we’re going to do it, OK? On Friday night though; that’s always a better night for a do.’

She zipped her bag firmly shut and looked at me. I was staring at her, astounded.

A party? Now? It’s ridiculous.

I’d almost forgotten it was her birthday this coming week too, and that made me feel even worse. Guilty. Selfish. I swallowed.

‘Well … what sort of party?’ I asked.

‘Early evening, cocktails and nibbles,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ve already started making plans, actually. I’ve spoken to Jacob, and he’s agreed that the children can come …’

‘What? Really? Oh, Mum, that’s … that’s amazing!’

I’d been sitting at the island, but I leapt to my feet at this, my heart soaring.

‘Yes, he asked them and they said they wanted to be here for Grandma’s big day. So that’s sorted. And we’ll ask some of your friends too, maybe make a fresh start, mend some fences. What do you think? I’ll have to go home eventually and I want to leave you in good shape, my girl, so we may as well get going on sorting you out now – and my birthday is a good excuse. So, no arguments. I’ll organise it all; you won’t have to do a thing.’

She left shortly after that, and my initial elation at the prospect of the children coming home, of being here in this house with me again in less than a week’s time, slowly faded.

Mum’s a force of nature, no doubt about that. But really? Jacob isn’t going to actually