Diary entry
Sometimes I wonder, honestly, how Ive managed to keep going this long. Living with a forty-year-old man who still acts like hes sixteen is exhausting. I suppose I should be grateful that Tom isnt out gambling or running around, but blimey, hes impossible.
Its like, Ill say, Tom, can you go to Lilys parent evening at school?, but hell just shrug and say, Cant, love. Dave and I have got the semi-finals on FIFA tomorrow.
He always forgets the bills. Ill nudge him, Tom, the council tax is due, and he grins, nods, and then a week later the hot waters off because he spent the evening glued to his screen. Either its Call of Duty or some other nonsense.
Our twelve-year-old, Ben, will come to me with his physics homework while Toms in the next room, shouting into his headset, Left wing! Oi, you daft bugger!
Seventeen years of this. Seventeen.
We met at uniTom was the charming lad, always with a joke and a pint, guitar slung over his shoulder, ready for a laugh. I was organised, the one with colour-coded notes, but what I loved in him was the lightness, the sense of fun, the ability to just *be*. I thought we were balance. I imagined myself as the serious one, him as the happy chaos. Yin and yang.
But it turns out, I ended up lugging the sledge, and hes the one riding atop, legs swinging, oblivious.
After the wedding, Tom workedhere and there. Sales assistant, football coach, letting agentjobs with minimal hassle, as hed put it. Wages were never much, but there was always some excuse: Its only for now, Em. Things will look up.
They never did.
So I slog on at HMRC, filling out forms, paying the mortgage, buying groceries, booking the doctor for Ben, checking his schoolwork. Tom needs his rest after work, which means slumped at the computer until all hours, every day.
Tom, Id ask, rubbing my eyes, can you *please* do the school run this time? I cant always get out early.
Sorry, Em. Got an important call in the morning.
Which means hes off to The Kings Arms with Steve.
Tom, have you paid for the broadband? Theyll cut it off.
Yeah, yeah, Ill do it.
Of course, he doesnt. So I do it. Every single time.
Its like being his mother. His manager. His prison officer. But never, lately, his wife.
The day I hit the wall
Yesterday Ben sat hunched over his homework, red-eyed.
Mum, I justI dont get this question. Dad, can you help?
Tom was in his favourite armchair, headphones on, lost in his virtual world.
Dad! Ben said, voice louder.
I walked over and yanked off Toms headphones.
Cant you hear your son?
Huh? Tom turned, irritated, as if Id interrupted something *crucial*. Em, Im busy.
Busy? I looked at his screentanks, explosions, angry messages flying in the chat. You call this busy?
Dont start.
Your sons asking for help! And youve been in this daft game for hours!
Its called Call of Duty, actually. And my ranks going up
I dont care *one bit* about your rank!
Ben quietly slipped out. He knows the drillwhen voices rise, best to keep out of sight.
I stared at Tom, this grown man with his paunch and his childish, petulant face.
Tom, I said, softly, its time to grow up.
He leapt up, sending the chair skidding.
What?!
I jumped.
Grow up?! Im sick of being nagged! Fed up with being told Im rubbish, that Im irresponsible!
Tom
Shut up! he snapped, grabbing his coat. Thats it. Im done. You do what you want!
The door slammed.
I was left standing there, frozen in the middle of the room.
When your son knows more than you
I sat at the kitchen table all night, staring out at the street, thinking, thinking.
He didnt come home. Wouldnt answer his phone. Ignored my texts.
For the first time in seventeen years, I didnt rush out to look for him, didnt panic call his mates. Just sat. I suppose Id finally run out of whatever had kept me patching things up all these years.
In the morning, Ben wandered in, hair all over the place.
Mum, wheres Dad?
Hes gone.
Did you fight again?
Not quite.
He poured himself tea. We sat in silence for ages. Then he looked up and said,
Mum, did you know Dads selling the car?
I stared at him, mug halfway to my lips.
What?
He told me not to tell, but since you argued Ben fidgeted. He was looking at papers last week. I saw him copying passports, marriage certificate, other stuff.
A chill ran down my spine.
When was this?
A week ago. He said its nothing, just in case. That we dont need to worry.
I marched to the living roomToms den for months now, claiming his back needed space.
Opened his desk. Papers everywherereceipts, bills, sorted and unsorted piles and at the very bottom, a folder.
I opened it, and felt the floor fall away.
A guarantee agreement.
Black and white: Thomas Edward Harris, guarantor for a loan of £38,000.
Borrower: James Edward Harris.
Of course. His brother. The one who five years ago nearly tipped Toms parents into heart attacks from his debts, then vanished until the debt collectors gave up.
Thirty-eight grand.
I sank onto the sofa, reading on.
The carour family car, the one we finally finished paying off last monthpledged as security. And then, paperwork about using our flatour homeas collateral too.
Oh, God.
So this was the real reason for last night. The tantrum, the shoutinghe knew Id find out soon. Decided to storm out and make himself the victim.
His immaturity wasnt laziness, or childishnessit was fear. Running from reality behind computer games and pints.
I grabbed my phone. Rang Tom.
He declined. Rang again.
What? he snapped.
Come home. Now.
Im not coming. Ive nothing to say.
But I do. About James. About the loan. About you risking everything for your brother who hasnt given you a second thought.
Have you seen the papers?
Ive seen. Get home, or Ill go round to James flat myself, and lay it all out.
He turned up an hour later.
When childishness is just cowardice
He dragged himself insidecrumpled, stinking of last nights pub.
I asked Ben to stay in his room.
Sit down.
He sat, eyes on the floor.
Thirty-eight thousand pounds, I started. Youre risking the car, and the flat. For your brotherwho nearly destroyed your family once already.
You dont understand, Tom muttered.
Go on, enlighten me.
James is in trouble! Business went underhes desperate, the bank are hassling him. Hes my brother! I couldnt just say no!
I laughed, a bitter sound.
You couldnt. But did you even think to ask me?
Youd have said no.
Spot on. I would have, because its madness! Tom, we have Ben! A mortgage to finish paying! We barely scrape by as it is! Now you want to take on another enormous debt
Hell pay it back.
Like he did before? I stood up. Remember what happened last time? Your mum was hospitalised! You swore, never again
People change.
They dont, Tom. James is a lost cause, professional failure. Hes always got his hand out, living off everyone else, and youre lining up to keep him afloat once more.
He stared at the carpet like a scolded schoolboy.
Choosing between your brother and your family
Suddenly Tom jumped to his feet.
I just I just couldnt refuse! Hes my brother!
And who am I? I rose too. Whos Ben to you? Are we just nothing?
Youre my family. But so is James.
No, Tom. Family is who you protect, who you stand by. James is a grown man. Hes forty-three and hes never supported anyone but himself. Now youd gamble our future for his.
He said nothing.
I opened the laptop and logged into online banking.
What are you doing? he asked, alarmed.
Changing passwords and security. For our accountwhere my salary goes, the one you wanted to use for James loan.
You cant!
I can. Because its my money. I earn it, Tom, week after week, while you flit from job to job and bring home pennies.
That one hurt him. But it was true.
He paled.
Em.
Tomorrow Ill see a solicitor, I said, barely glancing up. Ill find out how to protect our home, just in case you go ahead and sign that guarantee. And if I mustIll start divorce proceedings. Split the assets. Restrict property rights.
Youre blackmailing me!
Im protecting myself. And Ben. From you.
He grabbed his coat again.
Do what you like! Ill go to James now. Get the paperwork signed, then you can wallow in your spreadsheets!
If you do, I said calmly, I file for divorce. At once.
He stopped, hand on the door.
You mean it?
Of course. I took a deep breath. Seventeen years carrying this family. Working, supporting Ben, paying the bills. While you played games. And I tolerated it, told myself at least you werent violent, a drunk, or a cheat. But now you want to drown us in debt, for your feckless brother? Enough.
But he *asked*.
And? Hes *always* asking. Asked five years ago. Ten years ago. James is a professional beggar, and you fall for it every time.
He promised hed repay me.
Tomface facts. He never pays anyone back. He takes and takes, and when he cant, he disappears.
This time is different.
Different? How? Is it just a bigger debt, or is it now our turn to lose everything instead of your parents?
When the truth hurts more than love
Ben came out, worried and pale.
Mum Dad whats happening?
We fell silent at once. He looked from me to Tom, fear all over his facethe kind of fear that lives in children when their world wobbles.
Dad, he whispered, are you really going to take out a massive loan for Uncle James?
Tom jerked up.
You heard?
I heard everything. Ben wiped his nose with his sleeve. Dad, if he doesnt pay, will we lose our flat?
No, Tom lied. Itll be fine.
It wont, I snapped. Ben, go to your room.
But Mum
Now, Ben.
He left, head down, and I turned to Tom.
Did you see that, Tom? Did you see how scared he is? He should be worrying about Year 8 and his mates, not about losing his home.
Tom sat, slumping, hands over his face.
I dont know what to do.
You do. My voice was steel. You have to decide: your brother, or your family. Now.
Its not that simple.
It is. Call James and say, Sorry, I cant. I have a family. Three sentences.
If something happens to him
Itll happen, Tom. Sooner or later, because thats how he isalways in trouble, always scrounging, always running away. You have to ask yourself if you want to drown alongside him.
Silence.
I picked up my phone.
You have twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night, either you call James and say no, or I speak to a solicitor about divorce. Theres no other way.
Tom called the next evening. I was in the kitchen, solicitor beside me (a calm, practical woman in her fifties) running through ways to safeguard the flat.
Toms name flashed on my mobile.
Em?
You called James?
Pause.
Yes. I did.
And?
I told him no.
I closed my eyes, exhaled.
How did he take it?
He called me a traitor. Said Ive betrayed him, that were not brothers any longer. He was furious. Em, Im scared for him if Im honest. What if?
Hell cope, I said gently. Hell find someone else to taphe always does.
He came back home an hour later. The solicitor had gone, leaving a folder of leaflets on the sideboard.
For the first time in years, Tom didnt look like a daft overgrown teenager, but simplytired.
Is Ben asleep? he asked.
Yes.
We sat at the table. I slid the papers over to him.
We start again, now. You get proper worksteady, not temporary. We split the bills. You deal with Ben tooschool, after-school clubs and all that. And were honest with each other. No more secrets. No decisions behind the others back.
He was quiet, then nodded.
Ill try.
Three months on
Tom got a job as a site manager at a building firm. Not glamorous, but steady.
I left off micromanaging; let go. And was surprisedturns out, he can cook a meal, help with homework, even make it to parent evening *by himself*.
James vanishedchanged his phone, didnt call again.
And for the first time in seventeen years, I felt something new. I wasnt pulling a cart alone. I was justliving. With a husband who, at long last, had grown up.
