My mother always knew best.
Emily, I simply cannot stand this Connor of yours, she declared after meeting the young man who had come to ask for my hand.
Had I heeded her counsel, or at least asked which flaw she perceived in my chosen oneafter all, sometimes a person merely doesnt please you, other times there are worrying traits that a lovestruck girl might overlookperhaps the story would have taken another turn.
But I brushed her off, defending my choice with what I thought were perfectly reasonable reasons.
You never like anyone, she snapped. Thats why youre left alone, even though you could have married a man like me, whole and whole.
Much of it is just your opinion, I retorted, annoyed.
And why would you think I understand nothing? Because Im younger? she shot back.
I was no fool; I saw the interest men showed medecent fellows, in factbut I turned each one away without a second glance.
Without a second glance? my mother mused, then cut the debate short. Thats enough, Emily. Lets drop this.
I had already voiced my view, since I had introduced Connor to her, and now she left it to me to decide whether to listen to her or to judge for myself who was worthy of me.
Mother, I said, it may be a little late for decisions, but Im already with child by Connor. My baby wont grow up fatherless.
Part of my resentment toward my mother stemmed from the lack of a paternal figure in my life. In school I was the only girl whose father was absent without any respectable reason. Two classmates had lost fathers to death, which is different from never having one at all.
My own father had been present at birth, but when I was barely three, my parents divorced and my father simply forgot about me. He later claimed that, had I given him a son, we might have spoken of joint upbringing, but a daughtermewas left entirely to my mother. He did, however, pay alimony faithfully, though he never showed any interest in my destiny.
I was convinced that my mother bore some blame for the void. She could have brought a stepfather home, and we might have lived comfortably, perhaps not with the same affection as some of the girls whose fathers were present, but at least with a man in the house, sparing us the stigma of being a brokenhome child that the schoolboys used to tease me about.
So I decided that my child would have a father, no matter what. Connor was far from perfect, yet he loved me, and I believed he would love our child too.
When a paternity test finally proved his blood, he was overjoyed and, like a proper gentleman, immediately proposed to make a room in his flat a nursery. His enthusiasm melted my heart; my mothers doubts about him could not tarnish that picture.
In the end, a mother cannot force a daughter to stay with a man. It was only later, when our little Lucy turned one, that I truly saw what unsettled my mother about Connor.
He held a steady job, but when it came to helping with baby Lucy, even the thought was absent. His mother, Eleanor, kept stoking the fire, boasting of how she balanced two children, a tidy home, and a job she took up almost straight after giving birth. She spoke of modern appliances and a perfectly equipped flat, yet she ignored the simple fact that both her own children were placed in a nursery as soon as they were a few weeks old, cared for by staff while the parents worked.
Eleanors idea of a happy mother boiled down to popping in during a break to feed a child. After nursery came the playgroup, then the afterschool club where teachers helped with lessons and also fed the youngsters.
Her contribution at home was reduced to making breakfast and doing the washingby then they even owned a washing machine, albeit a modest one compared to todays gadgets. She set this lifestyle as the benchmark for everyone else.
Our town, however, had no nurseries left. Women with children under three were left to their own devices, looking after their tots twentyfour hours a day. Some were lucky to have help from husbands or mothers, but my mother, still working and not yet retired, could not be there. I was left to fend for myself and Lucy.
I still believed Connor loved me and that we had a decent familyuntil the day a fire alarm blared while I was taking a shower. It had gone off twice that year, both false alarms, and Connor seemed to ignore the sound. I rinsed the shampoo from my hair, wrapped a towel around me, and went to see what was happening.
The flat was empty; the front door stood ajar, smoke pouring in from the stairwell. I sprinted to the nursery, swaddled Lucy in a blanket, and fled. I scrambled onto the attic, crossed the roof, and dropped into the neighbours landing.
Outside I found Connor, trembling, clutching his brandnew gaming computer. Around his neck hung the Father of the Year award he had bought half a year earlier, and from his jacket pocket stuck a tablet and a mobile phone.
If Lucy hadnt been in my arms, I might have smashed his foolish, fourlegged companiona terrier named Baxterwithout a second thought. Instead I lunged, kicked him in the shins, and cursed him like a dockhand.
What truly broke me was that, instead of apologising or trying to explain, he accused me of losing my mind, saying hed simply forgotten about wife and child in the heat of the momentsomething anyone could do, he claimed. His reflexes were only good for saving his prized computer, not his wife or child.
Naturally we divorced after that. For the next six months his mother hounded us, demanding we reconcile for the sake of the family. My own mother, however, welcomed me and Lucy back home.
Mother, you were right. I should never have got involved with Connor, I told her, and now I see how he could abandon us in an emergency.
She smiled, recalling the day shed met us at the entrance, when the neighbours terrier barked at us.
Baxter? she asked. He barks at everyone, his owner Tom never lets him off the leash. Hes a good dog, just scared.
You see, she went on, when he barked in fright, you bolted straight for the stairs. You didnt try to shield me, nor did you even grab my hand.
I had been carrying his child at the time, and he knew it. It seemed strange that a loving husband and father would act so.
In my youth I might have replied, You know a lot about loving husbands and fathers. Now, after living through marriage, I kept silent. I realised, fortunately before it was too late, that having a father or husband in the house is not always the answer.
Sometimes it is simpler to raise a child alone than to stay with someone merely for the sake of a tidy picture. I will not repeat that mistake. And if Lucy one day, like Emily before her, asks her mother why she grew up without a father, I will have an answer.
I will simply tell her that in a crisis her father ran to save his computer, tablet, phone, and camera, not his wife or child. Perhaps later, when he is old, his gadgets will be the only thing he asks for help with, and he may never be forgiven for it. I would not forgive him, and I doubt Lucy ever would.
