I married Poppy just over ten years ago. We were both in our midthirties; I was a director at a large firm in London, and she ran a beauty salon in Camden. We had two children, and after I took my maternity leave I stopped working altogether. We were comfortable my salary was solid, and the familys finances were more than enough.
Ive always been a careeroriented sort, often away on business trips, and I usually spent my free time with my mother, Mrs. Whitaker. Shes a formidable actress in her own right, capable of putting on dramatic fits of anger and illness whenever she wants to draw my attention.
At a family gathering she once told me, John belongs to me; it doesnt matter that Poppy is your wife. To me, the family is only me! You need to understand that, because youre a mother yourself. No matter what, you must always help your husband! I never forgot those words.
The next morning I asked Poppy to explain what she thought my mother meant. She tried to downplay it, treating the outburst as a poor joke.
But good things dont last forever. Last year I was made redundant, and I turned to the bottle to cope with the disappointment. Poppy went back to work at her salon, picking up the slack.
I held onto the hope that Id get my head back and be the man I once was. Instead, things kept spiralling downwards. I filed for divorce, and Poppy moved in with her mother in Manchester.
I felt a strange relief one less mouth to feed, at least. A month later, my motherinlaw rang me up: Have you forgotten what I always said? You must always help your partner! My pension isnt enough, so I expect you to send a monthly payment to support John. Her audacity caught me off guard. I told her I would apply for child maintenance, insisting that the fathers duty is to support his children.
She snapped back, accusing me of having driven her son into this state.
Her words left me uneasy, and I hung up. Strangely enough, I still love Poppy, even though Im not sure how Im supposed to live with that feeling now.
