And how much child maintenance does your ex actually pay you?
Charlotte accidentally choked on her tea. The question hit her with the shock of a snowball in July; not outright cruel, just unexpected and stinging.
Across the kitchen table, Barbara sat expectantly, composed in her usual way. The apple tartCharlotte had baked it especially for her mother-in-law; Barbara always preferred applewas growing cold, but just then, it seemed trivial.
Were managing, Charlotte tried for a smile, but it felt stitched on.
Thats not what I asked.
Well… Thats a rather personal question…
Barbara set her teacup aside and laced her manicured fingers together. Her fingertips drummed a slow uneven tattoo on the tablecloth.
Charlotte, I wouldnt ask out of idle curiosity. Olivers started school this year, hasnt he?
Charlotte nodded, feeling the fabric of the conversation shifting, becoming heavy. She knew exactly where Barbara was leading, but found herself unwilling to acknowledge what she already understood.
Uniforms, books, a backpack. All those after-school clubs, milk money, you know. It all adds up, doesnt it? Barbara ticked off each expense with a perfectly painted nail. The costs have gone up, havent they?
They have, Charlotte murmured.
And just who do you think is paying morehis father, or my John?
A thick silence settled, sticky and uncomfortable, in the little kitchen with its cheerful curtainsthe ones Charlotte had sewn last spring. Through the window, a car horn blared; somewhere above, a child shrieked with laughter, while inside, the air was taffy-thick with something unspoken.
Charlotte cleared her throat.
We manage, she repeated, and felt how paltry the words sounded. John never complains.
Barbara sniffed, like a cat whose tail had been tread upon.
Of course he doesnt. My Johns always been the patient sort, takes after his father. She rose and adjusted her cardigan. But, Charlotte, its beginning to seem as if my sons supporting you allboth you and Oliver.
Barbara, please
But her mother-in-law was already gathering her bag and coat, not even waiting for Charlotte to find the words. Did she even need to? They were a family. It was John who wanted this, who chose this…
Barbara checked her bag, fastened her buttons. When she turned back, there wasnt anger in her eyesjust a tiredness, old as winter, and something else Charlotte couldnt quite name.
Try to find some extra work, Charlotte dear, Barbara said, and in her softened voice there was something worse than contempt. I didnt bring up my son so he could go about raising another mans child.
The door shut softly.
Charlotte stood motionless in the hallway, staring down at the Welcome Home doormat, as if it might offer some comfort.
…
That evening, the flat filled with ordinary sounds. Oliver clattered his bricks together in the lounge; John rattled saucepans in the kitchen, reheating dinner. An evening like hundreds before, but Charlotte couldnt shed the words exchanged that afternoon; like a broken phonograph, Barbaras voice looped relentlessly in her mind.
She waited. Waited for Oliver to drift off, waited until it was only her and John in the kitchen. He scrolled the news on his tablet, sipping tea, looking so impossibly calm and at home in his worn old T-shirt, that Charlotte nearly abandoned the matter. Nearly.
John, she sat by him Can I ask… Does it bother you? I mean, do you ever feel youre spending too much on Oliver?
John looked up, frowning gently.
Charlotte, what on earth do you mean?
Im just asking.
He set the tablet aside, facing her fully; the question made no sense to him, and in that, Charlotte suddenly felt a dart of shame.
Oliver is my son, John said simply, as if no other reality existed. What difference does it make whose names down on a piece of paper? Im raising him. I love him. What else could possibly matter? I cant see what youre getting at.
Charlotte nodded, her smile weak but genuine, because those were the words she had hoped for. Still, somewherefar inside, in that deeply shadowed placeBarbaras words clung, sharp and cold, a splinter she couldnt extract.
Half a year went by…
Charlotte sat on the edge of the bath, staring at two blue lines, distrustful of her own eyes. She showed John and he scooped her into his arms, spinning her around the hallway like a boy. Oliver hopped up and down, demanding to know what all the fuss was about, and when he learned hed soon have a sibling, declared hed teach her all about building things.
Pregnancy passed quietly, hardly noticeduntil March, when Rose was born, tiny and crumpled, with Johns eyes and Charlottes nose. Oliver kept his promisehe stood guard by her cot, shushing anyone who dared speak above a whisper.
Charlotte believed, perhaps naively, that now things would right themselves. She hoped Barbara would meet her granddaughter and, seeing their family whole and real, let her disapproval thaw. She was wrong.
Barbara came to visit two weeks after they brought Rose from hospital. The baby slept in her cot, Oliver was at school, and the three of them gathered once more around the kitchen table. Charlotte found herself holding her breath.
After a pause, Barbara set down her teacup.
Youre still on maternity leave, arent you, Charlotte? So that means theres less coming in. But youre still spending on Oliver, just the same. How are you going to make up the difference?
Charlotte felt the temperature drop inside her chest, as if her heart had become a snowfield.
I think you need to ring Olivers father, Barbara pressed on, oblivious to Charlottes paleness. Ask him to up his payments. Its his duty, after allOliver is his responsibility. You cant expect my John to keep filling the gap…
Suddenly, Johns hand came down flat on the table, rattling the cups and sending a spoon spinning onto the linoleum.
Enough, Mum, Johns voice was iron, and Charlotte barely recognised it. Thats quite enough.
Barbaras jaw tightened, lips thinning to a line, bracing herself like an old general switching from attack to defence.
John, Im only thinking of you and of Rose, she insisted, voice brittle. Dont tell me a mother cant worry about her own son!
What exactly are you worried about? John stood firm; his jaw worked, knuckles white. That Im happy? That I have a family?
That youre spending money and wasting energy on somebody elses child! Barbara flung up her hands. You have a daughter of your own now! Why do you keep supporting… him?
Charlotte pressed herself small against the chair, wishing she could melt right through the floor. Him. Her Oliver, who idolised John, who called him dad, who made him homemade cards at every excusethis him.
Oliver is my son, John enunciated, each word polished to steel. I couldnt care less what paperwork says. I raise him, I love him, hes as much mine as Rose. Were a family, Mum. If you cant see that, its not our problem.
Barbara leapt up so violently her chair crashed into the fridge doors.
Youre ruining your life! she shrieked, her voice pinched and wild. I didnt raise you, didnt bring you up for thisfor her and her child!
From the nursery came the slow, rising wail of a crying babythe sound swelling, frightened, louder and louder. Rose had woken to the shouting.
Charlotte was up before shed realised it, fleeing the kitchenher mother-in-law, her husbands voice rising fury behind herinto the muted pink quiet of the nursery. She lifted Rose, pressing her close, rocking, murmuring nonsense comforts as if spells.
Somewhere, the flats front door slammed. The walls shuddered with the sound.
And then, silence. Deep as midnight.
Gradually, Rose settled, snuffling into her mothers shoulder, sinking back into sleep. Charlotte stood in the centre of the nursery, hardly daring to move. Afraid to turn, afraid to learn what might have changed, what had ended, behind her.
A soft creakthe doorway. John slipped in, quiet, a tired calm on his face. He came to Charlotte, wrapping his arms about them both, and together they stood, unmoving, for an endless time.
Mum is… complicated, he murmured finally, his lips in her hair. But I wont let her upset you. She wont be coming by for a while.
Charlotte looked up at her husband, eyes stinging with unshed tears, and nodded, speechless.
They had survived. Their small familystrange, stitched together as in a dreamhad endured.
