26April
Im writing this as a way of keeping my head above water. Yesterday, after months of pretending everything was fine, I finally told Liam that I couldnt take it any longer. I still dont understand why hes drifted away from mehas he simply stopped loving me? He came home late again last night, collapsed on the couch in the living room and fell asleep there.
In the morning I sat opposite him at the kitchen table, the silence between us thick as fog.
Liam, can you tell me whats happening? I asked, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
Whats wrong with you? he replied, sipping his coffee and avoiding my eyes.
Ever since the twins were born youve changed.
I havent noticed anything.
Weve lived together for two years, practically as neighbours. Have you even noticed?
He shrugged. What did you expect? The house is always full of toys, the smell of baby porridge everywhere, the kids screaming Do you really think anyone enjoys that?
But theyre your children! I snapped, feeling the anger rise.
He jumped up, pacing the kitchen, his frustration obvious.
Every proper wife would have one wellbehaved child, a quiet little one to sit in the corner and not cause a fuss. Youve got two! My mother warned me, but I didnt listenpeople like you just keep breeding!
People like me? What does that even mean, Liam?
People with no purpose in life.
My life was turned upside down because you forced me to quit university, insisting I should devote myself entirely to the family! I fell silent, then added, I think we need a divorce.
He stared at me for a long moment before saying, Im fine with that. Just dont bother me with maintenance paymentsIll sort the money out myself.
He turned on his heel and left the kitchen. I wanted to weep, but the twins burst from their bedroom, crying for attention.
A week later I packed my things, gathered the twins, and left the flat wed shared. I moved into a spare room in a council block that my late grandmother had left me. New neighbours moved in, so I decided to introduce myself.
On one side lived a dour, middleaged bloke, and opposite him a sprightly lady in her sixties. I knocked on the man’s door, basket of scones in hand, and announced, Good afternoon, Im your new neighbour. Would you like some tea? He glared, muttered I dont do sweets, and shut the door in my face.
Shrugging, I went next door to Mrs. Eleanor Cartwright. She welcomed me warmly but only if I promised to keep my voice down when I spoke to the twins.
I love a quiet afternoon, especially after Ive watched my soaps. I hope the little ones wont disturb me with their shrieks. And please, keep them out of the hallway so they dont break anything.
Her speech was long, and I left feeling the future here would be anything but sweet.
I enrolled the twins in a local nursery and took a job there as a caretaker. It was convenient: I could look after them until the nursery closed for the day. The pay was pitifuljust a few pounds a weekbut Liam had promised to help. During the first three months of the divorce he did send a few envelopes with cash, but after that the money stopped. I fell behind on my council tax and have now been unable to pay for two months.
My relationship with Mrs. Cartwright grew tense. One evening, as I was feeding the boys, a neighbour in a silky robe slipped into the kitchen.
Sweetheart, have you sorted your finances yet? Id hate for you to lose electricity or gas.
I sighed, Not yet. Im heading to Liams tomorrow; hes completely forgotten about the children.
Mrs. Cartwright jabbed, Youre feeding them only macaroni youre a terrible mother.
I am a good mother! I retorted, And youd do well to mind your own business before you get a slap on the wrist!
She shrieked so loudly that my other neighbour, Tom, who lived down the hall, burst out of his flat. He listened for a moment, then slipped back to his door, returned a minute later, tossed a handful of coins onto the table and said, Quiet down. Heres something for the council tax.
Mrs. Cartwright fell silent, but as Tom slipped away she hissed, Youll regret this! I tried to ignore it, though it lodged itself deep in my mind.
The next day I went to Liam. He listened, then said, Im in a rough patch; I cant pay you anything.
Are you joking? I have to feed the twins, I protested.
Do what you must. Im not stopping you.
Ill apply for child support.
Go ahead. My salary is so low youll be weeping for every penny. And dont bother me again.
I left his flat in tears, with only a week left until my next paycheck and almost no money at all. As I walked home, a council officer appeared on my doorstep. Mrs. Cartwright had lodged a complaint claiming I was threatening her life and that my children were starving and unsupervised. The officer spent an hour lecturing me, then said, I have to inform social services.
I tried to argue, What am I supposed to have done? I havent harmed anyone.
He replied, Thats protocol. Theres a signal, and it must be followed.
That evening Mrs. Cartwright returned, eyes blazing. If those children bother me again, Ill have to involve social services.
What are you doing? Theyre just kids! I pleaded.
If you fed them properly theyd be asleep, not running around!
The twins stared at me, frightened. I tried to calm them, Come on, my darlings, Auntie is just joking, shes actually nice.
While I was wiping away tears at the stove, Tom appeared with a huge bag of groceries. He opened my fridge, loaded it with food, and left without a word.
Later, when my pay finally arrived, I knocked on Toms door. He opened, his expression as grim as ever, and said, I dont need any money. He shut the door in my face.
Just then Mrs. Cartwrights shriek filled the hallway, pointing at a puddle of tea on the table. Beggar children! Who will raise you like this? I ushered the twins to their room, mopped the floor, and sat down, wondering how to go on. They clung to me, their small hands squeezing mine.
Dont be sad, loves. Well get through this, I promise.
The next night there was a knock at the door. Tom stood there with two unfamiliar womena social worker and a man from the council.
Are you Valerie Whitfield? the woman asked.
Yes.
Were from childrens services.
Well be passing through. Please step aside.
They moved through the flat, opened the fridge, lifted the blanket.
Gather the children.
What? Youre insane! I wont hand them over!
The twins clung to me, sobbing. The social worker signalled to the officer, who tried to separate them.
Mother! Dont take us!
I fought with everything I had. A second man twisted my arms, and I felt the twins being dragged away. The officer finally let go when the childrens cries faded and a car pulled up outside. He released his grip, and I collapsed onto the floor, howling like a wounded animal. The flat fell silent except for the ticking of the clock.
I stood up, glanced around, and my eyes fell upon an old axe leaning against the wallmy grandmothers, a relic from when the house had coal heating. I picked it up, feeling its weight, a grim smile tugging at my lips. I headed for Mrs. Cartwrights door, axe in hand, ready to defend what was mine.
Before I could break it down, Tom grabbed me, snatched the axe away, and shouted, Stupid! What are you doing? Who are you hurting?
It doesnt matter now, I whispered, exhausted.
Tom dragged me to his flat, shoved me onto a couch, and gave me a tablet. I swallowed it, hoping the world would dim enough for me to slip away. My mind raced to the bridge outside, but the tablet made my eyes heavy, and I drifted off.
When Tom returned to his own flat, he found Mrs. Cartwright, dishevelled, sipping a bottle of valerian.
Satisfied? he asked.
Ah, Tom I never thought it would end like this.
He shrugged, Well see what the paperwork says tomorrow. Pray youre not in trouble, otherwise Ill be in a mess too.
The next month was a blur of forms, medical certificates, and endless tests for alcohol. I felt useless, as if nothing could change my fate. Yet Tom, ever the grim neighbour, wouldnt let me sit alone. He kept nudging me, urging me forward. When it finally seemed the twins might be returned to me, something inside me woken up.
Tom this is all because of you I said, and for the first time he smiled, a sad, worn smile.
I had children once too, he confessed. Lost them five years ago. I cant help yours, but maybe I can help you.
The night before the council hearing, I slept on Toms sofa, unable to rest. He sat beside me, eyes hollow.
Tom cant sleep? Tell me about your children.
He spoke in a flat, monotone voice. I had a wife and two boys. I took them for granted. After a fight, my wife left with them. I tried to get them back, but the house burned that night. I ended up in prison for three years, then sold my flat to pay the damages. Now Im back at the factory.
I reached for his hand, but he pulled away.
Sleep, Valerie. Tomorrow you need to look like youve got your life together.
The hearing came. The officer handed me a folder, his tone clinical.
Ms. Whitfield, make sure you keep your life in order so this never happens again.
I stared at the papers, feeling numb. The woman delivering them finally smiled.
Take them, collect your children.
My legs gave way. Tom steadied me as we stood in the waiting room, the twins clinging to me, their tiny faces wet with tears.
Enough, love, I whispered, holding them close. Well get home, well find a way.
Life has started to settle, slowly. Mrs. Cartwright remains shut in her flat, and Ive been offered a job as a technician at the same factory where Tom works. The pay isnt lavish, but its enough for bread and tea. One day Toms jacket slipped from the coat rack, his phone fell out, and my name flashed on the screen. I took it, went to his room, and found him staring at the ceiling, frightened.
Tom, I began softly, Ive never been good at saying the right things. Ive missed saying a lot to people who mattered. The worst is regretting words left unsaid.
What do you mean? he asked.
I want to try Im scared youll laugh, but Will you marry me?
He stared at me, then placed my cheek in his hands and said, Im not good with grand gestures, but know this: Ill do anything for you and the boys.
The days that followed were a mixture of ordinary chores and occasional drama. Our neighbour, Mrs. Penelope Hughes, a retired nurse, kept a legion of cats that roamed the hallway, meowing for scraps. Their chaos often spilled into my flat, and I found myself pleading with her to keep the feline army under control.
One cold morning I heard a furious shouting from the kitchen. Penelope, her hair in a mess, was ranting at the twins for stealing her milk. I tried to calm her, but the noise only grew louder, the cats joining in with mournful yowls. I thought about calling the council, but the thought of another complaint made my stomach churn.
Later, after a long shift, I returned home to find Tom waiting with a sack of groceries, his usual grim smile softened by the sight of the twins delighted faces. He handed me a loaf of bread, a packet of tea, and a note: For the childrens nightin. It was a small kindness that reminded me that, despite everything, there are still people willing to help.
Tonight, as I sit at the kitchen table, the twins asleep in their little beds, I look out over the rainslicked streets of Manchester. I dont know what tomorrow will bring, but Ive learned to cling to the moments of kindness, however brief, and to keep fighting for the two little lives that depend on me. Ill keep writing, keep trying, and perhaps one day the clouds will clear.
Valerie.
